


Better Out Than In

by LovinJackson



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fear, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Toothache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovinJackson/pseuds/LovinJackson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One wrong punch and Aramis' life is made a living hell. But it's his own stubbornness that could be his downfall. Set before 1.08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stubbornness

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This is my first attempt at a story in the Musketeer Fandom. This both makes me excited and terrifies me all at once as I have fallen completely in love with this show and its characters. I want to do it right. It’s been a long time since I posted anything substantial and I believe I am still getting a feel for the era and all things pertaining to it. But you gotta start somewhere, right?  
> This story came to be simply because I am having my own tooth problems right now and I needed an outlet. And what better outlet than putting my darling Aramis in dire straits LOL I hope if you read that you enjoy and that you let me know your thoughts. Thank you.

It was relentless. It was a jabbing pain that thrummed to an unheard beat. It was constant, excruciating and enough to bring a grown man to tears.

While tears had not surfaced yet, he was afraid that if the throbbing continued that his eyes might just betray him. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself that weakness. But right now he didn't care. Right now he just wanted it to end. In the far recesses of his mind he had considered ramming his head into the hard wall behind him. It couldn't hurt any more than he did right in that moment. In fact the darkness that would overcome his senses would be more than welcome, even for just a moment of blessed relief.

He just wanted it to stop. Please God, let it stop.

He glanced skyward, silently pleading for help. He wasn't above begging ... not now. Now he would beg for relief from the pain that had seemed to radiate from the source of his injury to encompass his whole being. It had gotten worse over the last few days... now it was unbearable.

A headache had seen fit to join the throng of stabbing pain. It was heavy and just as consistent. Not even his worst hangover had felt this bad ... and he'd been subjected to a few of them over the years. It was dreadful in comparison. In fact he was sure he'd rather take a shot from a musket or be ran through with his own sword. The thought had crossed his mind ...if only briefly.

He folded forward with a groan, resting his arm on the table in front of him; his forehead nestled against the soft folds of his white shirt. His other hand was pressed to his jaw in a futile attempt to keep the pain at bay. It hadn't worked yesterday, or the night before and it wasn't going to do any good now but it didn't stop him from trying.

The garrison was coming to life as Aramis sat at the courtyard table in absolute dejection. His fellow soldiers were all going about their morning, looking for food, for a sparring partner, for their next lot of orders from Captain Treville. It was a normal morning ... for everyone else at least. Aramis' world was far from normal as he sat cradling his head, trying not to whimper as shooting pain ran throughout his jaw.

The events of six days prior had brought him to this point, brought him to the point of seriously considering begging someone to put him out of his misery. He scrunched his eyes closed as another wave of agony hit. Had it only been six days? It felt like a lifetime had gone by, like he was wading through a hellish nightmare of pain and ... more pain. Dear god, he just wanted it to stop.

The slap on his back jarred him out of his thoughts and pulled a rather undignified sound from his throat. His head shot up, his headache bounding off the walls of his skull like a ricocheting musket ball.

Laughter followed his rude awakening and the person in question sat down beside him. "What a beautiful mornin'."

"Go 'way," Aramis responded while trying to not disturb his jaw anymore than necessary, dropping his forehead back down to his waiting arm.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice on the fence between amusement and concern.

The younger man had not been there, neither had Athos. It had been just Porthos with him – delivering a letter to a contact for the king. It had been a long ride and once their job had been done it was not unheard of to quench their thirst at the local tavern. It was also not unheard of for Porthos to find himself a card game. That was where it had all gone wrong.

Aramis raised his aching head to glare as Porthos chuckled beside him. Athos chose that moment to seat himself next to d'Artagnan. His face was impassive as he observed Aramis from across the table. "Your tooth is still bothering you." It was a statement, not a question.

"It's his own bloody fault," Porthos told them with a shake of his head as he accepted a bowl from Serge.

Aramis gaped at his friend, hand still pressed to his jaw. "Please do enlighten me as to how this is my fault? If you hadn't been caught cheating at cards..."

Porthos opened his mouth to argue and then paused, nodding his head in concession.

Just as Aramis thought, the big Musketeer had no argument. He had jumped to Porthos defence against the numerous men determine to teach his friend a lesson. It had been going so well. It had been fun. He'd felt alive. But that had all come to an end in one fleeting moment.

He remembered the moment when his life became a living hell all too well. One wrong punch by an overly angry and drunk tavern patron had sent Aramis reeling, his jaw exploding in white hot pain. He could swear he had heard his tooth crack on impact. He had certainly felt it.

"Still ... we coulda had it all fixed up the day we got back 'ere." Porthos reminded him, giving him a pointed look. "I know of a healer ..."

"No ..." Aramis shook his head and then immediately regretted the action as it sent pain bouncing all throughout his head and jaw once more. He closed his eyes and couldn't stop the groan from escaping his lips.

"No?" d'Artagnan asked. "What do you mean no?"

"It will not get any better," Athos stated, pouring a glass of whatever was on the table for them. Aramis hadn't bothered looking at what Serge had set out for them. He didn't want anything going near his mouth; that included everything from food to well meaning doctors who had no idea what they were doing.

"It will be fine," Aramis insisted. It  _would_  get better. He just needed to give it time.

"It will not," Athos countered.

"Athos, please ..."

"People die from infection," Porthos interjected, no longer laughing. His friend placed a hand on his shoulder, causing Aramis to wince. "It's been six 'hole days, Aramis."

"It's just a tooth. I'm not dying," Aramis argued despite how untruthful that statement had felt. He could have sworn death didn't hurt as much as his tooth did right now.

"An infection is an infection. It's still dangerous," Porthos countered, not one to give up.

"No," Aramis repeated. "I've seen what those so called teeth doctors do. I'm not having them anywhere near my mouth."

It was Athos' turn to sigh. "Aramis, you need to..."

"No ... I'm not going." He was not doing it. They would have to drag him kicking and screaming before he would see any kind of surgeon for his tooth. One aching tooth was bad enough. He didn't need them causing all kinds of havoc in his mouth. It was already painful enough.

"What are you scared of?" It was d'Artagnan who posed the question. The young Gascon held his steady gaze despite the glare he received. "Surely seeing the surgeon would be better than sitting here in pain? No offence, but you look awful."

Aramis looked at their young friend like he was insane. "Have you ever been to a surgeon for a problimatic tooth?"

"Not exactly," d'Artagnan conceded.

"Some have been known to use acid ...  _acid_. No ... you could not convince me to go to one of those barbaric monsters. I have brandy. I'll ... deal with this in my own way." He had brandy in his room. He'd been holding a brandy soaked cloth to the affected area for the previous two nights. It dulled the pain ... a little. The way he had been sipping from that bottle at night would probably require restocking sooner rather than later.

The thought of going to the surgeon for his tooth was more unsettling than he wanted his friends to know. He'd seen their work. He'd watched his uncle receive treatment for an infected tooth when he'd been but a child. He could still hear the screams in his mind. He was a soldier, he'd seen battle. He'd seen death and pain more times than he could count but this ... the thought of a doctor, working on his tooth, it terrified him. In fact, thought made him feel sick to the stomach. He remembered his uncle's agony all too well as the surgeon worked on his mouth. He remembered the burns and the damage. No ... he wasn't going to subject himself to that, no matter how much dental work had improved since he was a child. There had to be another way. It was  _just_  a tooth afterall.

"Where is this healer?" Athos posed the question to Porthos, apparently done talking to Aramis on the subject.

"Well ... that could be a problem."

Athos raised an eyebrow in question to Porthos' hesitant reply.

"He's in the Court."

"Of miracles?" d'Artagnan asked surprise evident on his face.

Porthos nodded. "There's more in the court than jus' poverty an' scum. This man ... he's clever, real clever. He knows things. I've seen 'im help people ... for a price."

"You think he could help?"

"It's worth a try."

"Is there any way we can convince this man to come to us?" Athos asked. "I don't like the idea of traversing through the court unless absolutely necessary. I'm sure our last visit didn't leave the greatest of impressions."

Aramis watched as his friends discussed his dental health as though his opinion was not needed. It was ultimately his decision and he was not going to be convinced otherwise. He extracted himself from the table, biting back a whimper as pain struck his tooth once more. It was like getting kicked in the teeth by a horse. The more it throbbed the more his headache grew with intensity. It made his head feel heavy and this conversation was making him feel cornered and trapped. It was time he left... to possibly go and cry in a corner.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked in concern, standing at the sudden movement.

"Where're you off to?"Porthos began to stand as well, pulling one long leg over the bench seat, ready to follow if necessary.

"Taking my leave," Aramis informed them. He turned to leave and then paused; pulling his hand away from his jaw as if to prove that all was well. "Look, as much as I appreciate your concern – and I do – it's not needed. It'll be fine."

Porthos shook his head in frustration. "You're being an idiot. You should 'ave it looked at."

Aramis opened his mouth to respond when a call from above interrupted the debate taking place. Looking up to the landing, Aramis could see Captain Treville, looking expectantly at them. He had orders for them. Aramis cringed at the mere thought of doing anything excessively active. His bad tooth throbbed as if taking that moment to remind him that it was in fact  _not_  going away.

Porthos huffed, moving the rest of his bulk over the bench seat and headed for the stairs. He was frustrated now, Aramis could tell. The large Musketeer was too annoyed to continue the debate now that they'd been called upon. Aramis watched as he took the stairs too at a time, without saying another word.

Athos moved next, taking one last gulp from his glass before leaving the table. He slapped Aramis on the back as he passed. "Come along then, duty calls." It took everything in him not to gasp in pain.

d'Artagnan followed close behind, pausing once to glance at Aramis. "You really should see someone. You shouldn't let things fester. You wouldn't allow  _us_  to."

He was right. When it came to his brothers' care Aramis took things very seriously. But this was different. This wasn't some life threatening injury. It was a toothache. He could handle it. Aramis moved to the table and picked up his jacket and pauldron. He carefully slipped his arms into the sleeves as he moved towards the stairs, joining d'Artagnan. "I promise you, d'Artagnan, if it gets unbearable I will reconsider my decision. I am, however, positive it will sort itself out. I will be fine."

d'Artagnan sighed but ultimately put the discussion to rest. "I hope you're right."

_So do I_ , Aramis thought. Allowing d'Artagnan to move on in front of him, Aramis paused just outside of Treville's office, closing his eyes, steeling himself for what was inevitably going to be a very long day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_One week later..._

His awakening was sudden. Hands on his shoulder, shaking him. His reaction was instant, instinct rushing through him as his large hands found purchase on his attackers throat, squeezing. The hands that had been on his shoulder immediately wrapped themselves around his wrist as his assailant gasped, precious oxygen cut off.

Porthos twisted in his bed to get better leverage. He'd never had to defend his life in his own quarters before. Who in their right mind would attempt the life of a Musketeer in their own garrison? Other than d'Artagnan of course.

"Po'ths!" Desperate hands sought to pry his grip away. "St...op!"

The voice, although gargled against the iron glad strength of his hand, gave him reason to pause. Full wakefulness seeped into him as he finally got a good look at the man dangling from his hand. Shadows inhibited his view but he'd know that voice anywhere. He snapped his hand back as if he'd been burnt, his brow furrowing in confusion as to why he was being accosted by his best friend in the middle of the night.

"Aramis?"

The man in question was now on the floor. He coughed and gagged, his own hands massaging his now tender throat. He opened his mouth, seeming to try and answer the unspoken question that was hiding in Porthos' utterance of his name. But instead he coughed again, groaning as one hand left his throat to press against his cheek. It was a common sight over the last two weeks.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Aramis stated after a moment.

Porthos pulled back the covers and swung his legs over the side of his bed, all vestiges of sleep now gone. Dressed in only his under garments, Porthos left the warm confines of his bed and knelt before his friend. He reached out hesitantly with a hand. The same hand that had been strangling said friend only moments before. It was on the tip of tongue to chastise Aramis on his foolish idea to sneak up on a man in the middle of the night. But any disapproving words got stuck in the back of his throat as it was obvious something was very wrong.

Was it a nightmare? It wasn't uncommon for Aramis to suffer from terrible dreams. They all had their share of dark pasts and with the return and subsequent demise of Marsac during the Duke of Savoy's recent visit, Porthos knew his friend had been struggling. Aramis tended to keep his troubles and pain to himself, but Porthos knew him well, possibly better than anyone and he knew that while closure on the matter had been served, Aramis was still working through his demons. Porthos let him ... while keeping a watchful eye.

But this was different. Aramis had never done this before. His nightmares were his own and he would hate to show their effect publicly, even to his closest friends. So no ... this was no nightmare.

"Aramis, are you injured?" Porthos asked, his gaze coming to rest on the hand pressed hard to the marksman's jaw – his tooth. It was getting worse. He didn't need Aramis to answer. It was all making sense. "It's your tooth, isn't it?" Porthos sighed in frustration, turning to light the candle that sat on a barrel next to his cot. "You're a bloody fool," he grumbled.

As light encompassed the room, Porthos turned back to his friend. Aramis sat there looking the picture of dejection and misery. Wearing only his breeches and a free flowing white shirt, Aramis looked much younger than his years. His suffering was palpable and Porthos frustration and annoyance died a little.

"I c-cant handle it any longer."

The choked words had Porthos moving forward again, he gently pulled his friend's hand away from his face. There was some obvious swelling. A little bit of guilt started to fester. Aramis might have been avoiding treatment but he wouldn't have needed treatment had Porthos not gotten them into a stupid fight over a game of cards.

He sighed again, pushing himself up into a standing position and reached down for the other musketeer's arm. "C'mere." He dragged a bedraggled Aramis up from the floor and deposited him on the edge of his bed. "It's bad?"

Aramis nodded, his eyes clenched shut, holding himself so still he was practically shaking. It was counter-productive and a little worrying. Porthos knelt before his friend, placing a large calloused hand on Aramis shoulder. Heat radiated off the Spaniard through the material of his shirt, spiking Porthos' concern to new levels. "I think I got some brandy somewhere in 'ere." Porthos turned to glance around his small quarters, trying to think where he'd last seen that bottle of brandy when he felt Aramis' hand on his arm.

"Kill me," Aramis demanded, his eyes now open, slightly glazed. "Please," he begged.

Porthos grinned. "Bit dramatic, dontcha think?"

"It's on fire, Porthos. I just want it to stop. I feel ... I feel like death." Aramis head dropped forward, his fevered forehead resting on the bare arm Porthos still held to his shoulder.

Porthos frowned, all humor gone in a second. He ducked his head lower, trying to see his friend's eyes from under the mess of curls obscuring his face. "What do you want me to do?"

Aramis took a shaky breath before speaking. "Make it stop. Please," he begged. It made Porthos uncomfortable. Aramis never begged. In fact he was sure in the years that he had known the man he had not once heard him beg. It was bloody unnatural. Aramis was then looking at him, his eyes beseeching and more than a little unfocussed, his lashes wet from moisture ... or tears. Porthos wasn't sure anymore. "Knock me out. Please Porthos, I can't handle it anymore."

"I'm not knocking you out. You need to let me help you."

"I'll do anything. I don't care anymore ... arghh..." he paused, squeezing his eyes shut once more against an obvious wave of pain. "I don't care anymore."

With his free hand Porthos reached up and felt his friend's forehead. It was hot. It was very hot. "You're burning up." Porthos growled. Infection had set in. He'd let it fester too long and now ...Porthos growled again. He should have done something sooner. He should have knocked the stupid bastard out and dragged him to a doctor. Porthos shook his head, frustration and regret pouring off him in waves. "Idiot," he muttered.

The decision was made though. Something needed to be done and done now. Aramis was in agony and had a fever. What had been an amusing tale of stupidly and stubbornness had turned into something very serious ... dangerous.

Porthos went to stand, but was halted by the grip Aramis had on his wrist as it suddenly tightening. He gently pried his friend's white knuckled grip from his wrist and watched worriedly as Aramis seemed to fold in on himself without his support. He didn't have time to wallow. He needed to act.

He stood quickly, snagging a shirt from his floor and throwing it over his head as he moved across the room to the shelf. He snagged the bottle of ... wine. No brandy. Wine would have to do. He quickly returned to Aramis' side and wrapped his friend's hand around the bottle. "Take this."

Aramis nodded and then glanced up at Porthos. "Porthos, hit me. Maybe ... maybe if you hit me hard enough you can knock the tooth out completely." His eyes were wide, like saucers ... again with the begging.

"Shut up." Porthos growled, reaching for his breeches, hurriedly slipping them on. "I'm going to get Athos." He hoped the older Musketeer had not drunk himself into a stupor. They needed his help. He hopped a bit, attempting to get his boots on, almost ending up on his backside in the process. Dressed as much as he needed to be, Porthos knelt back in front of Aramis, grabbing him by both shoulders this time. "I'll be back in a minute. Just ... hold on, right?"

Aramis shaky nod was enough consent and in seconds Porthos was out of his door and stalking towards Athos' quarters. It shouldn't have come to this.  _Damn him_ , he thought as he raced down the walkway. He wanted to shake Aramis for allowing himself to get this bad. It had been two weeks since the initial incident and despite looking miserable; he hadn't made any real complaints. Porthos hadn't thought anything else of it, trusting that if the situation got worse that Aramis would see to it before it got to this point. He should have known. His friend was a good medic, but a terrible patient.

As he reached Athos' room he slowed down, taking a calming breath before banging loudly on the wooden door. "Athos!" he called in a loud whisper. He didn't want to wake the whole garrison. He didn't think Aramis or anyone else would appreciate that. His fist hit its mark a good few more times before it suddenly swung open. Athos looked annoyed, half asleep and ready to murder Porthos with just a look.

"What is it?" He asked, his voice tired and quiet, despite the deadly look on his face.

"It's Aramis. We need to get 'im to a doctor."

Athos frowned but didn't say another word before retreating back into his room. Porthos waited, impatiently as Athos got himself ready in silence. In a few moments the older man emerged, dressed, carrying his weapons in his hand. Despite his quiet countenance, Athos was clearly aware of the urgency.

"Where is he?"

"In my quarters. Nearly killed the idiot, wakin' me up the way 'e did." Porthos explained, his mind taking him back to the moment when he realized he was choking the life out of his best friend. Aramis had been lucky he hadn't had a weapon close at hand.

With a quick stop to pick up Aramis clothes and boots, the two Musketeers found themselves back in Porthos' quarters. Their ailing friend was curled up in a foetal position on Porthos bed, clutching his face, the wine bottle on the floor, discarded.

Porthos glanced at Athos and saw concern in the swordsman's eyes, reconfirming that things were much more dire than they needed to be. Athos walked over to the bed, dropping his weapons to the floor and reached for their friend. Aramis startled at being manhandled but quickly tried to help Athos get him into a seated position.

"Are you ready to listen to reason now?" Athos asked, his tone even, despite the worried gaze. Porthos was grateful for his presence. It brought calmness over the room that quelled the panic that had been spreading in his heart.

When Aramis didn't respond with anything more than a nod and a moan, Porthos could feel his panic battling back against Athos' calm. "We need to take 'im to that healer." He repeated.

Athos sighed, keeping hand at the back of Aramis' neck, squeezing gently in support as he twisted to look up at Porthos. "We cannot just go blazing into the court with Aramis in this condition. It would be too dangerous."

"What then?" Porthos asked, frustration edged its way into his voice.

"We could get a surgeon to come to us," Athos suggested.

"No..." Aramis was shaking his head again and Porthos felt irritation making its way back. The man was sitting there, in distress and he still didn't want to listen to them. Of all the stubborn, stupid ...

"Not here." Aramis elaborated, interrupting Porthos' internal tirade. "I just ... not at the garrison."

Porthos looked from Aramis' trembling form to Athos. It took a moment but then understanding finally dawned. Aramis didn't want everyone in the garrison to know his dilemma and undoubtedly they would if he made enough noise. It was a matter of stupid pride but Porthos could understand it.

"Okay, where do we take 'im then?" Porthos directed his question at Athos.

Athos paused for a moment, looking at their friend, mind clearly ticking over their options. "We take him to Madame Bonacieux."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. The idea had merit. "d'Artagnan said her 'usband was away on business." They could leave Aramis in Constance's capable hands while they snuck into the court of miracles and caught themselves a healer.

"Perfect." Athos was already in motion, holding his hands out for Aramis clothes which Porthos handed to him immediately. "You need to get dressed, Aramis. Are you with us?"

It took a moment but Aramis eventually nodded. "Y-Yes" he responded as he grasped the doublet that Athos shoved onto his lap. He whimpered a little as he pulled his hand away from his face. It was a pitiful sight.

Athos moved back to allow Aramis enough space to get himself dressed. The boots were harder with Aramis shaky hands and Porthos watched as Athos wordlessly helped the stubborn Spaniard pull his boots on. It was a gentle scene, no judgement between any of them other than the judgement Aramis would have no doubt put upon himself for needing such help.

"Sorry..." Aramis mumbled around his aching jaw.

"Start that and I'll break another tooth," Athos told the younger man as he gently helped him to stand, slipping Aramis suspenders over his shoulders as if helping their comrade dress was just something completely natural. It allowed that sense of calm to come back. And Porthos was grateful for it.

"In truth ... I didn't think it would get this bad," Aramis admitted.

"You shoulda seen the healer or a bloody surgeon like we said," Porthos admonished.

"I know. I just ..."

"It no longer matters," Athos interrupted the conversation. They all knew the situation. For whatever reason, Aramis was dead set against dental surgeons. He'd backed away from the idea like it terrified him. But Athos was right. None of that mattered right now, as clearly the pain in his tooth outweighed Aramis' fear of the surgeon. "We need to move, unless you're content with killing yourself over a toothache?" Athos asked.

"It'd be a pretty pathetic way to go for a Musketeer," Porthos agreed, pulling Aramis with him towards the door. "Let's go. We'll fix this, my friend."

The Three Musketeers made their way to the stables and made quick work of saddling two horses while Aramis crouched by the wall. Every movement seemed to make him crawl into himself, causing Porthos to feel unsettled again. He'd witnessed Aramis injured in the past, yet he'd never seen him so incapacitated by something so small.

Porthos waited until Athos had mounted his horse before moving over to their friend and pulling him into a standing position. "Come on. Let's get you on the horse."

It sent off alarm bells for Porthos that Aramis didn't argue about his transportation. His sole attention was on the waves of agony resonating from his mouth. It took a couple of tries but once Aramis was seated safely behind Athos, Porthos mounted his own steed and they headed out of the garrison without another word. The faster they got to Constance the faster they could get the healer to Aramis.

**TBC...**


	2. To The Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the time it has taken, guys. Dealing with my own tooth pain over the last few weeks doesn't make for easy writing but I HAVE seen a dentist unlike our friend Aramis and I am on the mend and feeling much better. Thank you all so much for the responses you gave me for my first try at the Musketeers. I really appreciated each and every review. More than you know. Hope you enjoy the next instalment. Any mistakes you find in here are my fault. I have tried to edit as best as I could.

"d'Artagnan!"

The Gascon bolted upright at the sound of his name being called. It took a second for his mind to catch up. He glanced around the room, orientating himself with his surroundings. He was in his room ... at Constance's home; not at his father's farm. He could still smell the fresh country air as it took a few moments for the memories to fade back to reality. It had been a pleasant dream for once, one that didn't end in that horrible rainy night, his father dead in his arms. The good dreams were rare. He sighed, running a hand over his face.

"d'Artagnan! Get out here!"

d'Artagnan tensed, frowning at the urgency in Constance's voice. He threw the covers away from his legs and hopped out of bed, almost tripping over his boots that he had left beside his bed. He grabbed his pistol and sword from where he had left them sitting on a chair against the wall. The pistol was loaded, always ready. He'd cleaned it twice earlier that night as well. Something Aramis was trying to instill in him - if you looked after your weapon it would look after you.

Tearing open his bedroom door, d'Artagnan skidded to a stop on his stocking covered feet with his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. The trouble he found in the main room was nothing he had expected.

d'Artagnan lowered his pistol but didn't release his hold ... not yet. "Athos?" He was confused as to why his friend was at the house at such a late hour. "What's wrong?" He looked around the room, noticing for the first time that although it had been her voice calling his name, Constance was nowhere to be seen.

"I was just coming to get you," Athos told him. "We have a ... situation."

"What kind of a situation?" d'Artagnan asked as he followed his friend to the front door.

Athos didn't need to answer, not when his own ears picked up the sound of someone violently retching. As he reached the door, d'Artagnan brought his hand up to cover his nose. The smell was awful but as he stepped out through the front door the sight that greeted him was even worse.

Aramis was on his hands and knees, a mess of meagre stomach contents in front of him in the dirt. His stomach seemed to still be suffering from spasms, making the marksman painfully dry heave. Considering the Musketeer's lack of appetite lately? d'Artagnan was surprised that he'd had anything to bring up at all.

Porthos was there, steadfast in support of his friend as he stopped him from face-planting in his own vomit. Constance was on the other side of Aramis, rubbing soothing circles on his back. She wore the same worried expression that graced Porthos and Athos' face. In fact he was pretty sure his own expression matched theirs. He turned a confused gaze to Athos who was standing there, watching or waiting for Aramis to get a hold of himself. "What happened? Is it poison? Is he sick?" he asked. His mind reeled, different scenarios playing out. What could have possibly happened to bring his friends to Constance's door in this fashion? What could have possibly happened to have Aramis in such a terrible condition? Was it an attack? Was there danger lurking in the shadows?

"He has a toothache," Athos stated dryly, meeting d'Artagnan's gaze with a look mixed with exasperation and worry. "I believe it's become infected and made him ill."

d'Artagnan's eyes widened. He looked down at the sickly musketeer. The heaving seemed to have abated a little. He looked washed out, pale and flushed. He looked like a mess. "Of all the stupid, stubborn..." If he didn't look so awful, d'Artagnan might have strangled him. Aramis had promised him that he wouldn't allow it to get so bad.

Aramis lifted his head, taking slow and easy breaths. He was seeking control that wasn't within his grasp in that moment. Porthos' hand was still wrapped tightly around his friend's upper arm, his eyes not leaving the smaller musketeer.

"Do you think you can make it into the house?" Constance asked, ducking low to try and catch Aramis' eyes.

Aramis took another slow and controlled breath and then nodded. "Y-Yes." He glanced at Porthos, acknowledging without a word that he was ready to move. Porthos stood, lifting a shaky and spent Aramis with him.

"Come on ... before you cause more of a scene out here than you already have." Constance stood up and straightened her night dress, wrapping her cloak more securely around her. She glanced up at d'Artagnan, pausing on her way back inside the house. "You..." she poked him in the chest. "Can clean that up," Constance told him, looking pointedly at the mess Aramis had left on the ground.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to argue but Constance was already following Porthos and Aramis into the house. Looking at Athos didn't gain him any help, only a slight rise of an eyebrow and maybe a hint of sympathy before he too escaped to the confines of the Bonacieux home.

Great - d'Artagnan nose scrunched up in disgust as he glanced back at Aramis' mess - just what he wanted to be doing in the middle of the night. Sighing, his shoulders drooping in resignation. The young man scanned the area outside the Bonacieux home for the shovel he'd seen earlier that day upon arriving home. Moving over towards the side of the dwelling, d'Artagnan soon spied what he was searching for. He made quick work of shoveling the muck out the way, avoiding looking right at it. The smell was horrid enough and while d'Artagnan felt he had a pretty tough stomach he could feel it wanting to rebel as well.

d'Artagnan shivered as a cool breeze ripped through him reminding him of the little clothing he was wearing. It was a cool night, or was it early morning? He hadn't checked the time upon his sudden rude awakening. Either way d'Artagnan was glad to feel the warmth hit his skin as he walked back inside the house.

Inside, Constance was nowhere to be seen once more. Aramis was seated at the table, his head in his hands - almost rocking his body back and forth. Pain radiated off the man in waves. d'Artagnan winced in sympathy. Porthos was crouched beside his friend, his hand resting on Aramis' knee. The big man's face was full of concern and his gaze was concentrated on the other Musketeers pinched expression.

"So …" d'Artagnan hedged, placing his weapons on the table in front of his friends. He glanced at Athos - who was standing at the end of the table - when Porthos and Aramis paid him no mind. "What's the plan here? Not that I don't appreciate the late night visit but shouldn't he be taken to a doctor instead?" He rested his hip against the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest.

"That's why we're here," Athos supplied, slipping his gloves from his hands.

d'Artagnan glanced around the room, raising a brow in question. "There's no doctor here."

"We didn't think it kind for the whole garrison to be woken up by his distress."

Constance chose that moment to reappear, bustling down the stairs. "Yet you felt it okay to wake us up in the middle of the night?" With her arms full with cloth, blankets, bowls and some jars, she was a woman on a mission. "Move, d'Artagnan!" She demanded, causing him to jump up from where he had slouched, allowing her access to the table. He quickly reached out and removed his weapons from the table before being asked to.

"Our decision to come here was more for Aramis' benefit than the garrison," Athos told her.

"Tryin' to save 'im a little dignity," Porthos contributed from his crouched position.

"This won't be pretty … or quiet. We apologize for the inconvenience, Madame. We are in your debt," Athos replied.

Constance looked up to meet Athos' gaze, a small grin graced her pretty features. "I've stopped counting by now, Monsieur."

Athos inclined his head in acceptance of her jab, a rare smile forming on his lips.

"You said it was his tooth?" Constance asked, kneeling down in front of the hurting Spaniard. Her hand hovered over the one he had planted to his cheek as if she wasn't sure if her touch might hurt him further. "Just how did it get this bad?"

"It's ... it's my f-fault." Aramis admitted brokenly, his voice strained. He glanced up, meeting Constance's stare for all of a second with watery eyes before agony washed over him again.

Porthos reached up, squeezing his shoulder. "We warned 'im that 'e needed to see a doctor."

"Why on earth wouldn't you see a doctor, Aramis?"Constance asked, her voice full of confusion and frustration. "You men are all the bloody same," she sighed as she stood, reaching across the table for one of the jars she'd brought downstairs with her. "Would it kill you all just once to admit defeat and put your pride to rest?"

"I … t-thought…."

Constance laughed. "I sincerely doubt that you thought at all."

Aramis remained silent for a moment, his body language miserable and d'Artagnan was sure that if it wasn't for Porthos steady presence beside him the sharpshooter would have slipped to the floor and curled up in a ball in a vain attempt to keep the pain at bay. "I … didnt mean ..."

"Oh shut up, you," Constance reprimanded. She opened a jar of what looked like herbs of some kind and poured some of the contents into a bowl. "I'll send for a doctor. I can assure you that he won't be happy being woken up at this time of night…"

"We 'ad a doctor in mind," Porthos interrupted.

"The healer you mentioned last week?" d'Artagnan questioned, moving his balance from one foot to the other restlessly. With every barely contained whimper or moan from their friend he felt more and more useless. He tried his best to ignore the agony coming from the other side of the table and concentrate on the discussion at hand. "In the court of miracles?"

Porthos nodded. "That'd be 'im."

"Don't be ridiculous," Constance scoffed. "Why would you want to go into the court to get a doctor? We could have one here in a short amount of time." Constance paused in her herb crushing to look from Porthos to Athos like they were mad. d'Artagnan inwardly smiled at the fact that for once she wasn't giving  _him_  that look. "He needs to see a doctor."

"No!"

The response was from Aramis. It was short and panicked and the man's fingers were suddenly flexing in the leather of Porthos doublet. It reminded d'Artagnan of the morning the four of them had been sitting at the garrison eating breakfast last week. Aramis toothache had once again been the topic of discussion only this time the Musketeer's refusal to see a doctor was quieter, weighed down by pain and fatigue. It was, however, no less desperate. If he knew that it wouldn't cause him further pain, d'Artagnan might have just shook the stubborn man. "Aramis, Constance is right." Someone needed to make him see sense. This has gone on long enough.

Aramis ignored him, his concentration only reserved for Porthos. "No … please, Porthos. I … need … I need a doctor I can trust." He said, his voice as tense as his body. "Please," he begged once more. Aramis' eyes implored Porthos before they were snapped shut like he had been physically struck, a small whimper escaping.

Porthos held onto Aramis like he was the smaller man's only life-line and turned his own imploring gaze to Athos. Suddenly d'Artagnan felt like himself and Constance weren't in the room in that moment. There was an unspoken language between these three men, the inseparables, as d'Artagnan had heard them called. It fascinated him. He wanted to know more. The brotherhood of these men enticed him and he wanted nothing more than to be a part of its strength.

A moment of silent communication took place between the two older Musketeers. Athos seemed to be in two minds but ultimately his decision was made the moment a shuddering whine came from a trembling Aramis.

"We go to the court," Athos declared. "It shouldn't take us too long to get in and out without running into trouble. d'Artagnan, get dressed. We should make haste."

The decision was made. d'Artagnan nodded and rushed to his room without hesitation. He didn't understand why they needed t _hat_ particular doctor over another but if that was what they needed to do? Then d'Artagnan would be with them. Athos knew what he was doing. Above anything else, d'Artagnan was sure of that. Besides, this at least gave him something to do instead of standing around feeling helpless while one of his friends - his brother - was in misery.

Grabbing a clean shirt, d'Artagnan tossed the garment over his head and then tucked the fabric into his breaches. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. He ignored the bits of dirt and loose straw on the bottom of his stockings courtesy of his late night clean up outside. He didn't have time to be precious.

As he pulled the second boot on, sliding it to fit snugly around his calf, he jumped up in surprise to find Porthos coming through the door with a wilting Aramis clutched at his side. He moved out the way as Porthos bee-lined for the bed. "Constance thought he ought to be more comfortable in 'ere."

Upon depositing his friend on the bed, Porthos tried to cajole him into a lying down position. Aramis stayed still on his side for all of a fleeting moment before he pushed himself up with a cry of anguish.

"Aramis, you gotta rest," Porthos tried, one large gloved hand came to squeeze the back of Aramis' neck.

Aramis shook his head, clenching his eyes shut through another wave of agony before looking up at Porthos with glassy and desperate eyes. "E-Every time I lie, the throbbing in my … in my head it gets worse."

d'Artagnan watched in astonishment for a second. He'd never seen Aramis like this and it was more disconcerting than he would care to admit. He moved to the lone closet in the room and opened the door. He reached up and pulled out the spare pillow he knew to be there. Constance had told him of its existence on numerous occasions, confused on why he didn't use it. He'd explained to her that he'd never liked to use more than one, preferring to sleep on his stomach with one arm tucked under his pillow. He'd done so as long as he could remember.

"Here," he said, holding out the pillow-offering to Porthos. "Prop this up behind him and he should be able to rest with his head elevated … a little." He reached out to grip Aramis' shoulder, blanching at the heat radiating off the man. The urgency became that more serious with the trembling and heated skin underneath his hand. "Rest, Aramis."

d'Artagnan relinquished his hold and stood back when Porthos went back to manhandling their friend. Folding his arms across his chest, hands sequestered under his armpits, d'Artagnan watched the two Musketeers anxiously. Porthos had a gentleness about him that belied his size and strength. The large man hovered over Aramis like a worried mother - fussing, relieving Aramis of his jacket and boots. He was talking to him but d'Artagnan couldn't hear what was being said in the hushed tones. Whatever it was it seemed to calm the panicked man on the bed. Aramis slumped back against the pillows, spent. His breathing was small and fast and the pained grimace had not left his face.

As Porthos moved back, Aramis' clenched eyes snapped open and he surged forward again, reaching for Porthos. "No … wait."

"Aramis ..."

"Where are you going?"

"We're gonna get you a doctor, remember?"

Aramis took a shaky breath, looking around erratically but his gaze not really landing on anything in particular. He looked back at Porthos, hands fisted in the other man's leather. "mmhot.." he mumbled, flustered.

Porthos sighed. "I know, 'ats why we need a doctor. We're gonna get you all fixed, right?"

He locked eyes with Porthos and for a few long moments d'Artagnan waited as what seemed like another round of silent communication seemed to take place. The confusion in Aramis' gaze was worrisome, even more so than the pain. Porthos nodded slightly, a thin grin formed as Aramis nodded back, crumbling back against the pillows with a pitiful whine.

Athos appeared in the doorway, hands gripping both sides of the door frame as he leaned in to check on his friends. "Are we ready to leave?"

d'Artagnan stepped forward, slapping Porthos' arm when the older man made no move to pull away. "We need to go."

Porthos glanced askance at d'Artagnan and he hated to push the man but this was more than just a toothache. Aramis needed some serious help and he needed it … about a week ago. Porthos turned back to Aramis' breathless form. "You be good for Constance," he said with a smirk. He reached up and ruffled the dark curls like someone would a small child.

Aramis frowned, some understanding had crept back into his glazed expression. "Careful."

"Always, my friend." Porthos turned away and headed for the door.

With a smile of confidence towards the man now occupying his bed d'Artagnan followed Porthos out of the door, slipping into his leather doublet and collecting his weapons along the way. It felt good to be moving, to have some sort of plan. Outside d'Artagnan had found that Athos had saddled his horse. He appreciated the forethought because time really was the most important thing right now – they were running out of it.

Constance was hovering in the doorway as they all mounted their rides. She looked worried. d'Artagnan briefly wondered if that look upon her face was put there because of Aramis' situation or if she was worried about him going into the Court.

"We'll be as quick as possible, Madame." Athos voice was tight and on edge which matched Porthos' obvious need to kick his horse into movement.

"Don't get yourselves in trouble," Constance warned, wrapping her arms around herself. "You'll be no help to him if you get yourselves in trouble."

"We'll be fine." d'Artagnan shot her an encouraging smile.

Athos and Porthos set their horses in motion and with a quick wave d'Artagnan followed suit, feeling the urgency build with their speed.

**XXXX**

"So why this doctor?"

d'Artagnan's question sliced through the quiet Paris streets as they slowed their horses to a walk. It had been a silent question in the back of Athos' mind also.

"'Cause 'e's … talented."

"What do you mean by talented?" d'Artagnan pressed in hushed tones.

"He knows things. One of the best I've seen. 'e's more of a healer."

"Why do I get the feeling you're talking from experience?"

Porthos was silent for a few moments and Athos found himself waiting for the answer. There were parts of his friends past that he was unaware of, just as there were parts of his past that he kept to himself, things that he had no intention of divulging. d'Artagnan had already learned too much at his estate.

They had all fell into an easy step with each other, none of them asking for more than the other was willing to give. He respected that, it gave him a balance in life that stopped him from completely drowning himself in his sorrow. So he learned about his friends as they felt the need to confide. It happened over time. But he couldn't deny that he was curious now.

"This doctor, 'e saved my life once. Right before I left the court for soldiering."

"What happened?"

"Let's just say if it weren't for 'im I'd not have the use of both of me eyes."

Athos raised an eyebrow at this admission. The scar that ran across Porthos' eye was obvious but Athos had never really given it a second glance. It was a part of Porthos and while he knew it obviously held a story, he'd never really thought about it. They all had scars. They were soldiers. It was interesting to know that this particular scar happened before becoming a soldier. It was something Porthos carried from his upbringing in the court.

Looking out into the distance, Athos squinted, although it didn't really do much to improve his vision. Over by a building there looked to be a half built structure, derelict and forgotten. It was almost ominous in the dark. It would be a sufficient place to stop. Athos had no intention of riding into the court. He wanted to get in and out fast, without any fuss, and horses would attract attention.

"We should stop 'ere,"Porthos suggested as if reading Athos' mind.

Athos pulled his mount to a stop. He glanced around with trepidation. It was still dark which aided them in cover but also restricted their own ability to see.

d'Artagnan pulled up beside him, looking over at Porthos. "You do know where you're going?" he whispered.

Porthos raised an eyebrow at the young Gascon, whispering back. "What kind of question is 'at? Course I know where I'm bloody goin'"

Athos decided to ignore the exchange between the two, instead choosing that moment to dismount. He walked over to a railing that connected to an alleyway. They were right on the border of where Paris met the Court of Miracles. Athos took a long breath, watching as his huff was made visible by the cold early morning air.

Porthos and d'Artagnan directed their horses over to Athos and dismounted almost in unison, wrapping the reins around the railing.

"It's been a long time since you've seen this doctor. How do you even know he's still alive?" d'Artagnan questioned further in a hushed whisper.

"Cause I do."

"That's hardly an answer, Porthos."

"Trust me."

"I do."

"Doesn't sound like."

"Gentleman." Athos' low tones interrupted the bickering between the two men. They didn't have time for this and their journey through the court would not go unnoticed if they continued on this path. That said, the same questions had been floating in the back of Athos' mind. But he didn't feel the need to voice them. Porthos would not risk Aramis' life on a hunch. That was all Athos needed to know. "Are we ready?"

"One more question."

Athos waited patiently while Porthos was trying obviously not to growl in frustration. "What?"

"If Aramis is so against seeing a doctor for his tooth, why does he trust  _this_  doctor?"

"He doesn't," Porthos supplied, earning him a confused and exasperated look from the young man.

"He trusts Porthos," Athos stated as if the answer should have been obvious. That was after-all the only reason Athos felt compelled to come on this journey instead of dragging his stupid friend to any doctor within easy reach.

d'Artagnan absorbed the information and then shrugged, accepting it. "Fair enough."

"Glad you're 'appy with that. Can we get a move on now?"

"What are you waiting for?" d'Artagnan asked him, his grin teasing.

Porthos glowered at d'Artagnan for a moment. Athos fought to contain his own grin, despite the urgency or their mission. Flipping his cloak hood over his head, Porthos huffed and then headed into the court, no doubt expecting them to follow his lead. Athos, nudged d'Artagnan to follow after their friend. d'Artagnan was more capable than most men but Athos still felt the urge to protect the lad. He opted to take position in the rear, keeping their youngest member between them … protected.

The court wasn't as quiet as Athos would have liked for that time of the morning. Compared to the main city of Paris it was a hub of activity and not at all comforting. They remained unassuming, hoods over their heads, concealing their faces. They moved with Porthos as if they belonged there. Confidence was the key in any situation where you were in a place you didn't belong.

Unlike last time they had attempted to enter the court, this time they had a guide that knew how to navigate without being noticed. Porthos clearly knew where he was going and for a moment Athos felt like they might actually make it in and out without incident.

As they walked, Athos witnessed the world around him with sadness. The deeper they went the worse the conditions seemed to get. Porthos has grown up in this place, without parents, without someone looking out for him. But with sadness came pride. Because Porthos – despite his obvious disadvantages – had come out of the other side having made something of himself. He was one of the finest soldiers in the regiment and one of the finest men that Athos knew.

The man in question picked up his pace. In that moment, Athos knew Porthos had found his target. There was a dwelling in the distance, reddish glow from behind a thick curtain covering the doorway. Porthos stopped in front of the door, d'Artagnan almost running into the back of him at his sudden stop. Porthos hesitated. Athos wondered what he was thinking in that moment. There was more to Porthos' story than he had told them. That much was obvious. But now was not the time for nostalgia or demons. They needed to get back to Aramis.

"Porthos," Athos hissed, causing d'Artagnan to look over his shoulder at him.

"Right ..." Porthos whispered, his body language tense. He pulled aside the thick red curtain and stepped over the threshold.

d'Artagnan glanced at Athos one more time, wisely not commenting this time on whatever he was thinking. They both followed Porthos into the dwelling. Porthos slipped the hood back, revealing his face to whoever they would find. Athos and d'Artagnan followed suit, both squinting to adjust to the light of the candles littered around the room.

Their entrance did not go unnoticed. A small old man stood by an occupied bed at the back of the room. His form was hunched over. He looked frail and wrinkled with age as he tended to a sick child on the bed. Athos looked dubious at the man in front of them but once again he refrained from making a comment. He knew all too well that you could not judge a book by its cover.

The man in question had glanced up at the invasion of his home, a look of shock flashing across his features before recognition settled in its place.

"Maynard," Porthos greeted, a hesitant smile pulled at his lips.

The old doctor didn't immediately respond in kind and Athos realized they were about to learn more of Porthos' story that night. He hoped Aramis had time for it.

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed guys. There is obviously more to come. How a story about a toothache ended up with more than a one-shot I don't know. But I do have a plan :) See you soon :)


	3. Here Comes The Doctor

"Porthos."

d'Artagnan watched the old man warily. He hadn't been sure what to expect on this venture. But the look in this man's eyes wasn't exactly hospitable. He didn't seem hostile so d'Artagnan refrained from his instinctual need to protect his friends. Aramis trusted Porthos and so did he. Porthos would handle this. d'Artagnan rested his hand on his rapier just the same.

"It's been a long time," Porthos stated. He remained standing straight, meeting the old man's gaze. His lips twitched upward in a small hesitant smile.

"You're looking well, Porthos," Maynard commented, his tone level. He waved a hand in Porthos' direction. "It healed well." The dark frown on the man's face changed to one of curiosity. "Did you retain full vision?"

"Perfect vision thanks to you." Porthos said with a grin.

Maynard moved forward, approaching Porthos for what seemed like a better look. "Remarkable. There had been so much blood and swelling the last time I saw you ... I wasn't sure."

"A story, perhaps, for another time," Athos interrupted, looking pointedly at Porthos.

Porthos clapped his large hand on Maynard's shoulder. "It's good to see you, old man."

After another moment of staring, Maynard huffed and turned away from Porthos. He turned back to his patient. "What are you doing here, Porthos?" He placed a damp cloth into a bowl of water, soaking the material before wringing it out. With gentle care, Maynard placed the cool material to the boys head. His weathered hand moved to the boy's wrist, holding it lightly between his fingers. He nodded to himself as if some silent question had been asked. He kept his back to them now, carrying on his treatment as if his home hadn't been invaded by a blast from the past. "What do you want?"

"Can't an old friend just stop by for a visit?" Porthos asked, eyebrow lifting.

His expression was hopeful and worried. d'Artagnan wondered if Porthos was surprised by the reception he was receiving. It brought his curiosity to new levels. He glanced sideways at Athos who just closed his eyes and shook his head, silently instructing d'Artagnan to bite his tongue for now.

Maynard glanced over his shoulder and snorted. "Old friends? Do you take me for a fool?"

Porthos frowned. "What's 'at supposed to mean?"

Maynard sighed and kept his back to them. His shoulders were hunched with strain or age. He moved on from his patient to a precarious looking shelf. His old hands ran lightly over different jars as if searching for something important. It was unclear whether the healer was simply seeking to look busy in the presence of his intruders. "You have the audacity to come back here after what you've done?"

Porthos looked confused and more than a little hurt. He took a step towards the diminutive man. "I don't understand..."

"Charon." The old man turned around, sadness in his eyes. "He was your friend too, was he not?"

"Charon? That's what this is about?" Porthos asked incredulously.

"You killed him. If that is how you treat your friends, Porthos, then I would rather not be one. He ... he was a good boy."

"A good boy?" d'Artagnan scoffed, looking between his friends and then back at the healer. Memories of finding Porthos in the court, of Aramis' blade cutting through Charon's body in defence of his friend flooded d'Artagnan's mind. The first time d'Artagnan had met the man in question he'd been about to attack Porthos. He'd tried to blow up the court of miracles and everyone in it.

This was ridiculous. Aramis was suffering and here they were stalled because of a man that had betrayed the very people this healer spent every day trying to save. d'Artagnan was well aware that he only had so much patience on a good day and the hurt expression on Porthos' face saw him reach his limit. "Porthos didn't kill him." It probably wouldn't do well to tell the man who did kill Charon. d'Artagnan got the feeling Maynard would be even less inclined to help them.

"That is not what I heard."

"Well you heard wrong!" d'Artagnan hissed.

Porthos reached out his arm and patted d'Artagnan on the chest. He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell this man that he was wrong. But he stopped under the weight of Porthos' hand.

"Maynard, I need your help."

Maynard shook his head and turned back around. "No. You need to leave. I wipe my hands of you."

Porthos eyes narrowed. "You owe me." His voice was low and dangerous. His frustrated tone was tinged with hurt. There was a story here. d'Artagnan made note to ask more questions … when the time was right.

Maynard turned around again, this time there was real fire in his eyes. "I owe you nothing." He spat. "Any debts were cleared when you turned on your own, Porthos."

"Turned on me own?" Porthos asked, taking another step forward. "In all the years since I left this 'ell 'ole I have never forgotten where I came from or its people. You want to be angry with someone, Maynard? Take a look around you. Charon would 'ave seen this place blown to bloody smithereens with you and everyone else 'ere."

"Nonsense." Maynard waved a hand on the air dismissively. "He was a leader. He looked after the people in this place. He would never harm them." Maynard crossed his hands over his chest, his look stern.

Porthos laughed, but it was anything but humorous. "I s'pose you didn't know 'e'd made a deal with the Cardinal then?"

"Nonsense."

"Cardinal paid 'im a 'efty price to betray you all. They wanted to clear the court to rebuild. The people in it are nothin' but a dirty nuisance who needed to be exterminated. You can ask Flea yourself. 'at was the type of man Charon was. 'e needed to be stopped."

The anger in Maynard's face had fallen a little. Porthos' words were hitting their mark. The old man shook his head, bringing his hand up to his jaw, he stroked his beard almost absent-mindedly. "No … no … you're lying. Flea would have told me."

Porthos closed his eyes for a moment. "Flea's bein' kind to 'is memory, 'at's all. Maynard, why would I lie?"

What was supposed to have been a simple mission to get a healer had turned into a battle. d'Artagnan shifted on his feet. That restless feeling was resurfacing again with the delay in getting back to their friend. They really didn't have time for this.

"We don't have time for this," Athos interjected, as if reading d'Artagnan's thoughts. He placed the paperweight he had been inspecting down on the table in front of him and gave his full attention to the healer. "Monsieur, we're in need of your assistance."

Maynard frowned at Athos, clearly not liking the interruption. "Why should this be my concern?"

"'cause you're a healer, Maynard, the best I've ever seen. Whatever problem you 'ave with me, 'as nothin' to do with my friend," Porthos implored. Maynard's face was now full of confusion so Porthos continued. "You've never turned away someone in need b'fore. Our friend, he's … he's real sick. We wouldn't 'ave come otherwise."

"Where is your friend?" Maynard asked and d'Artagnan felt a small sliver of hope that they were finally getting somewhere.

"He was too sick to make the journey," Athos supplied. "We need you to come with us. You will be well paid for your time. That I can assure you."

"Surely there are other doctors you could see in the city. You do not need  _me_."

"Yeah, I do." Porthos told him in earnest. "I need 'im to be well again and I promised him the best healer I know. I am not leavin' without you, Maynard."

"So … I don't have a choice in the matter then?"

"Think of it as the highest of praise, Monsieur," Athos told him, his face remaining calm but d'Artagnan could feel the same urgency he felt in Athos' eyes. "We cannot leave without you."

Athos statement had a finality to it that brokered no argument.

"And you said I'll be paid?"

"As soon as you've seen to our friend I will pay you myself," Athos assured him.

There was a tense moment before Maynard turned and shouted towards the door to the connecting room. "Julian! Come out here at once! Julian!" In a few moments a young man with a head full of tousled hair and bleary eyes rushed into the room. "I need you to tend to Pierre here while I am gone." Maynard indicated to the sleeping boy on the cot.

"Where are you going?" The young man asked, rubbing at his sleepy eyes obviously confused as to why his sleep had been interrupted.

Maynard turned and locked eyes with Porthos. "It seems I have to make a house call."

**XXXXAll4OneXXXX**

Athos looked up as he exited the building. The sky was as dark as the buildings surrounding them. In a few hours the sun would rise, bringing with it a new day. Hopefully it was a new day that was filled with no more worry for a foolish friend. There was no doubt about it; Aramis was an idiot but if Athos was truly honest with himself? He didn't like the idea of a dentist any more than his friend. There was no easy way to fix a tooth … especially when you were stupid enough to let it fester for this long.

Athos sighed and leaned his back against the outside wall of the ramshackle home. To an outside observer his presence would seem casual but Athos was watching the darkness. He didn't want any more delays and he really had no time or patience for any altercations. He just wanted to get back to Aramis and get the frustrating man well again.

d'Artagnan appeared at his side, the young Gascon's focus on the blackness surrounding them. Athos was no fool. d'Artagnan was full of questions. Since the boy had stormed into their garrison intent on killing him, Athos had come to know that d'Artagnan was never really still. His body was full of energy, bursting to the seams. His mind was passionate and loyal. He wore his emotions on his face for the world to see. These qualities were part of the reason he would make a great Musketeer one day but Athos also worried they could cause him trouble.

"So … what did you make of that?" d'Artagnan asked. He was looking directly at Athos now.

Athos looked down, shifted against the wall and then glanced sideways at his young friend. "It's Porthos' business, d'Artagnan. We all have pasts. The fact that we won't be returning empty handed is the important thing." It wasn't the first time that night that d'Artagnan had verbalised Athos' own curiosity. But Athos was content to wait Porthos out. He would share the finer details when he was ready.

d'Artagnan nodded and looked back out to the dark street. "Do you think he'll be able to help?"

"Porthos is confident."

"It wasn't exactly a warm reception and if Maynard discovered who really killed ..."

"There is no reason for that to happen," Athos responded, lowering his voice a bit more and glanced over his shoulder to where the entry was. Aramis had been the one to kill Charon but it had been in defence of Porthos' life. Athos couldn't find regret for that. He would have done the same thing.

"I just want to get back. We've been gone too long," d'Artagnan grumbled, kicking the dirt with the toe of his boot. He sighed. "Maybe we should have just gotten a doctor less … complicated."

"Possibly," Athos agreed. It was a lot of effort to go to for a doctor when they could have had one from close by. Aramis probably would have already been treated by now and they could all relax. But Aramis had been so desperate. It was a strange thing to see the Spaniard so terrified of something. Athos had always thought him fearless. It was unsettling and despite Aramis' foolish actions Athos felt the need to bend to his will. He was getting soft.

"I hope this healer is worth it," d'Artagnan stated, turning to look towards the door. "What's taking them so long?"

"Aramis will be alright, d'Artagnan." He had to be. Athos would accept no other result.

"I'll feel more like believing that if we ever get back to him."

Athos couldn't disagree with d'Artagnan's sentiment and turned to join the younger man's gaze to the door. Porthos chose that moment to exit the building. His face contorted into a deadly frown as he approached them. He was angry but more than that he was hurt. Athos didn't need the full story of Porthos' past to know that Maynard's accusations had cut deep.

Maynard followed the large Musketeer through the door. He wore a cloak that had seen better days and carried a medium sized brown leather bag. Maynard pulled a hood over his head and stood in front of them expectantly. "Shall we leave?"

Athos pulled the hood to his own cloak over his head and then waited for Porthos to take the lead once more. He indicated with a nod of his head for d'Artagnan to follow Porthos and then made a sweeping motion with his hand to indicate that Maynard should follow. "After you, Monsieur."

Athos brought up the rear, watching from under his hood as Maynard fell into step beside d'Artagnan. The group moved through the court in silence. The kept to the shadows like they had when they had entered the community to begin with.

Ahead of them, Porthos picked up his pace a little. The end was in sight. Athos felt relief sweep through him as he closed in on Maynard and d'Artagnan. Athos glanced behind him once more, scanning the darkened streets. Something small and white scurried across the street, its four legs moving so fast they blurred. A stray cat. The moonlight caught its white fur, illuminating the animal as it paused, frozen. It caught Athos in a staring match for a few moments. The spell was broken with a growl. Athos snapped his head back to his companions. He moved back to where Porthos was standing. The dark, derelict building at the edge of the court of miracles stood before them. The flimsy railing connected to the structure was missing something very important.

"Our horses…" d'Artagnan gasped.

"They're gone," Porthos growled.

"Damn it!" Athos cursed.

**XXXXAll4OneXXXX**

Curled up on his side, Aramis shuddered for what felt like the hundredth time in a matter of moments. Chills ran through the length of his body causing him to shiver. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He fought to breathe through the thick heated air around him. It suffocated him. How could he be so cold and hot at the same time? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.

Aramis flopped over onto his back with a groan. His muscles felt weak and his neck was stiff. He laid there for a long moment, sagging against the bed beneath him. Raising a shaky hand to his forehead, he frowned at the damp heated quality of his skin. His face felt flushed and his hair was sweaty against his hand. He dragged fingers through the dark curls, moving them out of his face. It was trying to suffocate him. He needed air. He shuddered again, contradicting the heat pouring from his body. The rise and fall of his chest picked up speed as he stared around the room in confusion. Where was he? Where were his friends? He had the urgent need to see them. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong and he needed to find them.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position, Aramis allowed his bare feet to press to the floorboards. Bare feet? Where were his boots? He couldn't find his friends without his boots. He pressed a hand to the left side of his face. It felt thick and swollen. A dull ache resided behind his cheek. With a frown, Aramis licked his lips, registering a bitter horrible taste on his tongue. His tooth. He'd almost forgotten about it during the brief respite from pain.

Aramis glanced around the room again. Recognition started to swim into focus. He knew where he was. He was in d'Artagnan's room at Constance's home.

Constance had given him the blessed relief. He remembered the horrible smell and the disgusting taste of whatever she had applied to his tooth and gum. She had asked him to trust her and he did. He always had. But where was she now? He looked up, finding the open doorway that lead out into the main room.

Another shudder ran through him and his chest felt tight. He just couldn't get enough air. It was too hot. He looked around the room, wondering when d'Artagnan had gotten a fireplace built in his room. He found nothing. It took slow moments before he realised it wasn't the room making him hot.  _He_  was hot. His body was betraying him. He needed to get outside. He needed to cool down.

Desperate hands pulled at his shirt, seeking purchase enough to pull the fabric over his dishevelled head. His shirt discarded on the bed, Aramis scrambled to get to his feet as panic started to unfold in his heart. His lungs desperately tried to draw breath. His legs wobbled and the sharpshooter found himself on his hands and knees, panting like he was trapped in a steam house with no escape.

Aramis pushed himself to his feet once more, stumbling towards the door as his world tilted on its axis. He crashed into the door frame, managing to catch himself before falling into the main room. He was so hot. He thought that maybe he wasn't at the Bonacieux home. Maybe he was in hell. Maybe he'd actually managed to kill himself over a stupid toothache. Maybe God hadn't been so forgiving of all his sins and he was now burning in the fiery pits of hell. If he wasn't? The heat bearing down on him was surely going to finish the job his tooth had started.

He closed his eyes and leaned his overheated forehead against the door frame, trying to refrain from whining like a small child, his chest heaving up and down in rapid succession.

He needed water. There was a well just outside. The desire for the cool liquid pushed him on. Aramis staggered for the front door. Fumbling with the door handle with shaking hands, he pulled the door open. The fresh early morning air hitting his over-heated skin caused a dizzying effect and he wavered on his feet. He could see the well even in the dark, his vision blurring in and out like he was in a desert staring at a mirage. He moved towards it, one clumsy foot in front of the other until he felt the cool stone of the well under his hands.

" _Twenty of our friends … murdered."_

Aramis flinched at the sound of the familiar voice. It was a voice that he was never going to forget. It was forged in his mind along with the memory of those twenty dead Musketeers. The voice was angry and condemning. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of those snow covered woods and the image of his friend walking away, leaving him alone in the freezing elements. He shivered; a cold hand ran up his spine, spiking pain up into his tooth. It hit him hard, causing him to cry out and reach up to press on his puffy jaw.

" _You let me walk away. You let me ruin my life."_

Marsac's voice floated in the air, taunting him with words he'd spoken to d'Artagnan at this very well a few months prior. It was something that he hadn't been able to shake. The guilt of not doing more. The voice sounded so real. Aramis didn't want to look. But he did.

Upon opening his eyes, he turned to look over his shoulder. Marsac was standing there like he had on that fateful morning after the massacre of Savoy, flowing white shirt bloodstained and eyes hollow. They were in the forest, snow was lightly falling and he could hear the squawking of the crows as they feasted on his friends.

He turned back to the well, leaning heavily against it. "No …" he muttered. "No, no, no …" he sunk to his knees, feeling the soft ice-cold snow wet the knees of his breeches. Tiny drops of icicles fluttered and landed on his bare shoulders making him shudder. His fingers dug into the stone walls of the well as he pressed his flaming head to its cold surface.

"Aramis?"

There was a hand on his shoulder and he crumbled, finding himself sliding to land on his rear. His side was pressed to the well, huddled in an effort to stop the shivering. God, he was shivering.

He was cold again and he couldn't stop trembling. "D-Don't leave me. Don't leave." He was left injured and alone with twenty of his dead friends … and the crows. Those damn crows.

There was a gloved hand pressed to his uninjured flushed cheek. "Aramis, what are you doing out here?"

He scuttled back at the touch, eyes wide with surprise. "Why d-did you lea...leave?" He couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. His jaw ached like it had never stopped. "They're d..d..dead. All of t-them," he choked, bringing his hand up to its usual spot against his hurting tooth. His brothers were dead. He closed his eyes. All around him in the snow Musketeers lay scattered in a mixture of white and red. He had a sudden fear. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan. Were they okay? "Wh...where are t-they?" They wouldn't leave him too. But no, that couldn't be right. They were never in Savoy. It had been him, only him. Alone.

"Aramis, no-one is dead and no-one is leaving you. Please. Listen to me, look at me. It's Constance. I'm right here."

"Constance?" Aramis frowned. Reality started to fall back into focus with her name, with her voice. He opened his eyes once more and found Constance hovering worriedly above him. He glanced around in a panic as he searched for the ghost of his dead friend. Marsac was gone and so were the snow covered woods and the blood and the crows. He let his gaze fall back to her.

Constance nodded encouragingly at him. She moved her hand to his upper arm, keeping them in physical contact and he was glad for it. It was real and tangible and he needed it. "That's right. It's me. Are you okay? What are you doing out here? Are you trying to scare me half to death?"

"I wanted water."

Constance rolled her eyes. Her gloved hands wrapped tighter around his bare bicep. "The water I left by the bed wasn't good enough for you?" She asked pointedly, sighing in exasperation at his confused expression. She'd left water by the bed?

Constance helped to drag him to his feet. "Come on, you fool. Let's get you back into the house before you catch yourself hypothermia as well." She pulled his arm over her cloak covered shoulders, taking his weight with a huff of exertion. "That's all I bloody need. Your friends would never forgive me."

"Sorry." He tried to pull away, not wanting to hurt her with his weight. The motion almost landed them both on the ground in a heap. Constance was stronger than she looked. He marvelled at her. He could understand why d'Artagnan was so enamoured by her.

"Just walk with me, Aramis," she instructed and this time he did as he was told.

Before he even realised what was happening, Aramis found himself sitting on the edge of d'Artagnan's bed once more. He slipped back, snagging the edge of the bed covers and pulled them up and around him, shivering violently. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried his hardest to stop his teeth from chattering. It hurt too much. A headache was building again, all pain and pressure and no foreseeable escape.

The blankets were suddenly pulled from his shoulders and he whined with the loss of them. "F...f..freezing," He wrapped his arms around his body in an attempt to stave off the cold. He was so cold. The snow had left with Marsac's retreating form but it had left a lingering touch. Now he just couldn't seem to get warm.

Constance pressed her palm to his forehead. He leaned into it, seeking the warmth of her flesh. "Your burning up." He shook his head in denial at her words. He was so cold; he wanted to curl up under a mountain of blankets next to a fire if only to stop the shivering from rattling his damaged tooth. "You feel hotter than before."

A cup full of water was thrust into his hand. He looked at it blearily and for a moment he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with it. After a couple of beats he found Constance's gentle hands wrap around his and direct the cup to his lips.

The first sip was glorious. He felt it slide down his throat and into his very empty stomach. He took a bigger sip and regretted it almost instantly. The cool water slipped over his infected tooth sending his nerve endings into a shrieking panic. He dropped the cup and didn't even hear it hit the floor through the screaming in his head, or was it more vocal? He didn't even know any more. He pressed his hand firmly to his jaw and it only made it worse. It hurt to touch.

"...be here soon. I promise."

He was pulled forward into an embrace, his face resting against stiff material of a corset. A hand ran through his hair in comforting strokes. He shivered violently and even though some part deep inside him thought he should pull away he couldn't.

The hand ran through the mess of unruly curls in such a soothing way that Aramis allowed himself to sink into the touch. A feeling of love and absolute safety surrounded him and he felt he could weep.

She was here and she wouldn't allow anything to happen to him. "Mother..." He remembered the way she used to run her fingers through his hair when he was sick or after a nightmare. It always made him feel loved and safe and he missed it.

"No, Aramis, it's Constance. Remember?" The warmth of her body moved away and he shivered. "Aramis, open your eyes." He didn't want to. He hurt so much. He whimpered but did as he was asked when he felt hands squeeze his shoulders. "Are you with me?"

Aramis frowned. "Constance?" He looked past her, confusion filling his heart. He blinked, wincing against the pain radiating from his jaw. He was with Constance. He had a sudden ache in his chest as the memory of his mother vanished as reality returned. God, he hadn't thought of her in many years.

"You can stop that. You're going to be fine." Constance told him, smiling reassuringly. "The doctor will be here soon."

"Porthos?" He asked, hope and fear filling him all at once. Porthos was so adamant that this healer was good news. Porthos had promised him that he could fix this problem. God he just wanted the problem to go away. The fear melted away and he silently prayed that Porthos would be back soon. He prayed harder than he had in a long time. He folded forward, his head coming to rest on Constance's shoulder as he shuddered. The throbbing was getting worse again. He wanted to rip his head off.

"Madame Bonacieux?" The sound of a deep voice filled the house.

"In here," Constance called over her shoulder. Her hand found the back of his head as he pressed his forehead harder into her shoulder. "See," she whispered. "The doctor's here. We'll have you feeling better in no time." Her hand slipped down to squeeze the back of his neck.

Aramis sighed with relief. Porthos was finally back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) Sorry it was so slow coming. And dont worry, I havent forgotten about Porthos' eye :)


	4. Extraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry for the delay once more. Real life really can be a pain. I am not sure at all with this chapter if its even remotely good. It's a longer one this time and I am taking liberties with details of extracting a tooth in the 1600's. Either way it'd be horrible. That much we know right? I hope this isnt completely horrible and I apologise for any typos or mistakes.

In all his time living in the court Porthos had never gotten near a horse. No-one really had the money, the space or the need for such animals in the slums of Paris. Porthos hadn't really thought much about the beasts. It hadn't been until he'd left that world and became a soldier that he'd had his first real introduction. Even now while he could ride, he wouldn't have considered himself the best rider in France. But he couldn't help but be concerned. He'd developed a bond with his horse. He was his friend.

How the hell had they been foolish enough to allow their horses to be stolen? He'd been so preoccupied with getting back to Aramis that he hadn't thought twice. His heart had sunk when upon their return their mounts had been nowhere to be seen. Who had taken them and for what purpose? Their horses were of fine stock and would fetch a hefty price if sold. But losing his horse to a merchant or a farmer was not what concerned Porthos the most. Horse meat would be better than nothing when you had nothing to begin with. The thought was too horrible to consider.

"How did you learn to be a healer?"

d'Artagnan's question interrupted Porthos' morose thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder at the two men behind him. d'Artagnan walked beside Maynard, his attention squarely on the old man. The boy was all fire and curiosity and he wasn't afraid to use either.

Maynard responded with a sigh. "That was a long time ago."

"We've got some time to kill," d'Artagnan countered.

They had too much time to kill as they walked through Paris. They would have already been back at Bonacieux's by now had they had their horses. This little endeavour had taken much longer than Porthos would have liked and he was almost regretting the whole mission. So far it had done nothing but dredge up misguided anger and delayed Aramis' treatment.  _Bloody Aramis an' his stupid stubbornness_ , Porthos mentally cursed his friend.

Maynard sighed again. "Very well. I was not much older than Porthos was when I first met him. I met this enchanting woman. She showed me many great things. She told me I was a natural."

"She taught you?"

Porthos looked back again just in time to see Maynard nod. "In exchange for teaching me everything she knew, I brought her trinkets, gold, anything I could pocket. These hands are deft at thievery as well as healing." Maynard proclaimed proudly. "Her hands were like magic. I once believed there was nothing and no-one she couldn't heal."

"Only once?"

"You soon learn, my boy, that magic belongs in fairytales. Life and death isn't as forgiving."

"What happened to her?"

"She fell ill and for all her magic and all of my talent she died."

"How did you meet Porthos?"

"Porthos came to me after a rather unfortunate incident with a tavern patron. Do you remember it, Porthos?"

"How could I forget?" Porthos grumbled, continuing his pace. He didn't want to talk or rehash old memories, not anymore. He wanted to get back to Aramis and put this whole thing behind him.

"I was passing the tavern on my way home and saw two young boys tearing out of the tavern like the devil himself were after them. A few rather angry men chased after them."

"It was Charon they were after." Porthos didn't know why he felt the need to contribute to this story. He had nothing to prove.

"I found Porthos and Charon hiding in an alley as the men ran passed. Charon was injured and Porthos begged me ..."

"I didn't beg," Porthos objected.

"He begged me to help Charon. I agreed and in return, I had the boys work for me."

"Work for you?"

"Doctoring doesn't pay all that well when all of your patients don't have a cent between them."

"We were his side project," Porthos supplied with a sigh. There was no point in denying it.

"And let me tell you, no-one was better than Porthos. What he didn't have in raw talent? He made up for under my tutelage. To be honest, I always thought Charon was jealous. But he was a good boy. He didn't deserve to die."

Porthos stopped short, almost causing d'Artagnan and Maynard to run into his back. He rounded on the smaller man and backed him up into a wall of a nearby house. His hands held the doctor there, fingers clenched in the moth eaten fabric of his cloak. "And  _I_  didn't kill him," Porthos hissed.

He felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from his old mentor. "Porthos, stop. We don't have time for this." Athos wrapped an arm over his shoulder and pulled. "You can settle this later," he whispered in his ear.

Porthos released his hold on Maynard and with an angry huff he shrugged away from Athos. He turned and continued in the direction of the Bonacieux home. He was frustrated and angry and hurt and he wanted to punch something ... hard. This had been a terrible idea. What had he been thinking? He didn't even know why he was so angry. He'd never really been one to care about what other people thought. But for some reason with Maynard he felt enraged. Charon had gone against everything their brotherhood stood for. He'd betrayed them all and yet the blame was being laid at  _his_  feet? Worse yet, the blame was being laid by a man that Porthos had looked up to, a man he had trusted. It didn't sit right with him to have the man think so lowly of him.

"Porthos, slow down." Athos called to him. He clapped a hand on his shoulder to pull him to a stop.

Porthos turned to face the smaller man. "We've wasted enough time 'avent we?"

"I agree. But unless you want the old man to keel over before he gets to Aramis, we should slow down."

Porthos looked to where d'Artagnan was walking, pulling Maynard along. The doctor wasn't as young as he used to be. Porthos sighed, although it turned into more of a growl. If Aramis ever got himself this sick again he wouldn't have to fear a bloody doctor.

"Come on," Porthos stated as he fell into a less angry, more purposeful gait next to Athos. "Aramis must've driven Constance insane with all his whinin'. She'll be glad to see us."

"Or she'll wish to hurt us for leaving her alone with him in the first place."

Porthos glanced sideways at his friend. He hadn't thought of that. Constance was a frightening woman when she was angered. He glanced behind him again, checking that d'Artagnan still had control over Maynard. He turned back to Athos with a smirk. "d'Artagnan's the one that 'as to live with 'er." He didn't miss the rare slight smile that forced its way onto Athos' features.

Porthos had never been gladder to see the familiar building that was the Bonacieuxhome. It was still quiet but dawn teased the horizon. It wouldn't be long until the sun rose and with it the citizens of Paris. "Finally," Porthos muttered.

His relief was shattered in moments as shouting could be heard loud and clear coming from the house. Porthos and Athos shared a look of alarm before they both bolted the remaining distance separating them from Aramis. Neither man bothered knocking. Porthos was pretty sure they were beyond the point of pleasantries and politeness. Constance would forgive them, somehow she always did.

Porthos followed Athos through the house, trusting that d'Artagnan could handle Maynard. Raised voices could be heard coming from d'Artagnan's bedroom, tension and stress seemed to leak from the walls of the Bonacieux home doing nothing to settle Porthos' apprehension.

"Stay back!"

Athos threw a concerned look over his shoulder, catching a matching expression from Porthos. That was Aramis' voice. It was strained and muffled, but loud and angry all the same.

"I ... I mean it!"

"Aramis ..." Constance called to him, her tone cajoling like she was trying very hard not to spook a frightened animal.

Porthos followed Athos into the room and stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him. Aramis was at the far end of the room, backed into a corner by Constance and a man that Porthos had never seen before.

The man looked to be in his forties, light brown hair and despite obviously having dressed hastily, his clothes were impeccable. The stranger was holding a hand to his clean shaven face, drops of blood could be seen on his sleeve and on the front of his pristine shirt.

"Please … calm down." Constance held her hands up in a placating manner, her voice was soft and while Porthos couldn't exactly see her face from where he was standing he could picture the smile on her lips.

"No!" Aramis shouted; his voice was ragged and scratchy. "He's a …a fucking barbarian..." he muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. His face broke into a painful wince. He looked so tired. Leaning back against the wall seemed to be the only thing holding the ailing Musketeer upright. "I'll give him more than a broken nose if he comes near me again!" He warned.

"Aramis ..."

"What's goin' on in 'ere?" Porthos demanded, having had enough of the show before them. His protectiveness spiked as he gaged his friend's condition. Aramis was dressed in only his breeches, his skin flushed and his damp hair stuck to his head in a mess of tangled curls. In his hands, gripped tightly was a reel of fabric complete with wooden panel.

Constance jumped at the sudden intrusion. She turned to look in his direction and relief instantly filled her features. "Porthos, Athos... thank God you're here." Constance didn't move, keeping herself in between Aramis and the stranger.

"What's happened? Who is this?" Athos asked, gesturing to the stranger.

"This is Doctor Corbin," Constance supplied, looking almost sheepish. It wasn't a look that Porthos was accustomed to seeing on her face.

"A doctor? What's he doing 'ere?" Porthos asked, stalking towards the doctor in question. He grabbed the man by the shirtfront and slammed him into the wall. "What'd you do to 'im?" Porthos snarled. He had no patience. Not now.

Constance jumped at the sudden violence. "I was getting worried. His fever was getting worse and you weren't back yet," Constance attempted to explain. Porthos' eyes were locked onto the wide blue eyes of the doctor.

The man struggled in Porthos grasp to no avail. "Unhand me, Sir!" Corbin's English accent sounded strained in the French language, his tongue tripping over foreign words.

"Answer me!" Porthos growled, shaking the man. His frustration had built over the long night and his need to protect his friend was now paramount. This man was a threat and Porthos didn't like him.

"Porthos!" Constance called in alarm. "Please …"

A hand gripped his shoulder once more, much like it had when he'd been about to throttle Maynard. Athos was close, pulling at his arms in an attempt to free the squirming English doctor. "Porthos, let him go! Now." Athos hissed, insistently tugging on his arm. "Porthos!"

Porthos made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat but reluctantly let the wiry man slip from his grasp. Taking a step back, he watched as the man fell to the floor before scrambling to his feet. "What is the matter with you all? I came here to help and this is the way I am treated?"

"Count yourself lucky, Monsieur, that Porthos here has more pressing matters." Athos voice was even toned and calm but his tight grip on Porthos' arm hadn't eased as if he was waiting for Porthos to attack once more.

Constance was still hovering between them and Aramis. "I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"It's okay, Madame. We'll handle things from here," Athos assured her in a calm tone that bore no judgement.

Porthos shrugged out of Athos's grip and looked over at his friend. Unlike the fire and fear they'd witnessed upon first entering the room, Aramis just looked pained, the wall was the only thing keeping him standing. He was bent forward, hands on his knees as his head drooped between his shoulders. "Aramis?" he asked hesitantly, moving forward past Constance to get to his friend.

Aramis startled, straightening, glazed eyes sought out his and he raised the reel of fabric in a defensive move causing Porthos to stop just short of touching him. He raised his hands in much the same manner as Constance had. He wasn't naive enough to think that Aramis wasn't dangerous in this condition. He'd known the Spaniard long enough to know that Aramis could turn anything into a weapon. He'd seen him use books, hats, cloaks, pots and pans and even a pillow against a rather irate husband once. Having his friend in a fever crazed state only made the danger so much worse and Porthos had no intention of having his head knocked from his shoulders by a roll of fabric.

"He hit me!" The voice came from behind him and Porthos wanted to throttle the doctor once more when Aramis' gaze was deviated from his. "And this one threatened me. Is this how I am repaid for my kindness at this late hour?"

"Oh do shut up before I clock you one as well," Constance threatened before Porthos could do so, causing him to inwardly smile.

"Outside." Athos instructed, brokering no argument. "Now." Shuffling could be heard behind him as Athos obviously manhandled the man out of the room. Porthos would thank him later.

Porthos kept his eyes on his friend. "Aramis, look at me," he demanded, waving a hand to catch Aramis' attention.

Aramis blinked at him. "Porthos?"

"Hey ... how 'bout you give me that?" Porthos asked, indicating to the roll of fabric in Aramis' death grip. With confusion etched on his features Aramis lowered his gaze to the fabric in his hands. Porthos held out his hands and inched a little closer. "That's it. Just pass it over to me."

"I-I'm not letting him near m-me."

"Neither am I. He's gone. Look, see, Athos took care of 'im." Porthos glanced over his shoulder to clarify that he had indeed been correct. The only person in the room with them now was Constance. In the brief moment that their eyes met Constance looked beside herself with worry. He winked at her to try and reassure her and then turned back to his friend.

Aramis sagged against the wall again. The roll of fabric dropped from his hands and landed on the floor with a dull thump. The marksman groaned as he folded forward, cradling his head in his hands, fingers flexing as if he might pull his hair out. Porthos moved into his friend's space and pulled him into a standing position again. He looked miserable and leaned into Porthos, his body shivering. "What ... what took you so long?" he muttered with a pained grin.

Porthos chuckled. "You miss me already?"

With Constance's help, Porthos managed to get their fevered friend back onto the bed. "He was quite worried about you," she commented, brushing Aramis' damp hair back away from his face.

"Worried, huh?" Porthos asked, trying to ignore the heat in his friend's skin as he settled him on the bed. He understood Constance's concern even if he didn't agree with her choice of doctor. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on Aramis shoulder as the man curled up on his side. "I'm not the one lying 'ere all pathetic like."

Aramis shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut as he huffed. "P-Pathetic?"

Porthos squeezed Aramis shoulder as his friend tensed. He kept his eyes clenched tightly closed and pressed his face harder into the pillow. The low moan that came from Aramis' throat, made Porthos wince. He looked up, wondering where the hell d'Artagnan and Maynard were and caught Constance's anxious expression.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. I..."

Her face was filled with worry and uncertainty. It looked foreign on her. "You were worried," he finished for her. She didn't need to apologise for that.

"His fever was getting worse. I feared he couldn't wait any longer," Constance continued as she reached for a cloth that had been lying on the floor beside the bed. She dipped it in the bowl on the small table next to bed and then wrung it out, handing it to Porthos. "I'm afraid Doctor Corbin might never come back here again."

"Where'd you find 'im?" Porthos had never seen or heard of the man before.

"He's new to Paris. He'd met with my husband about a new cloak. He was the closest doctor I knew of."

"Pompous git!" Porthos found himself growling again at the thought of the man.

Constance conceded with a sheepish look. "He doesn't have the greatest bedside manner, I agree."

Porthos sighed. "Not the best patient either, our Aramis," he mused as he pressed the cold compress to Aramis' forehead, noting the shudder it elicited from man.

"I couldn't blame him," Constance admitted. "If he'd come at me intent on sticking a burning piece of metal in my mouth I might have punched him too."

Porthos looked up at Constance incredulously. But anything he was about to say was interrupted by another shudder coming from the man in the bed. "Aramis?" Porthos called softly. "It's gettin' worse?"

Aramis' laugh was ragged and anything but humorous. "It hasn't s-stopped." He paused, swallowing with a wince before opening his eyes. "I should have ..."

Porthos sighed, resuming the cool clothes movement. "You should 'ave bloody listened to me in the first place." Leaning forward he moved Aramis' hair away from the back of his neck and placed the cool compress against the hot skin. Aramis made a sound that almost sounded like contentment.

"I …" Anything he was about to say was interrupted by a groan. Agony rushed over his face, making his features crumble. "God."

Porthos felt helpless. His friend was pale, his skin burning; and he was trying so hard to keep it all together. Porthos could see the strain in the other musketeer's body to keep from completely unravelling. Despite what he'd seen earlier, Aramis was not pathetic but even the strongest man could only take so much.

Sitting back, Porthos pulled his hand away. His intentions of standing up were halted by Aramis' quick reflexes. Even in agony his friend was impressive. Sweaty palms held his wrist in a white-knuckled grip. "Don't."

"Don't what, Aramis?"

"D-Don't leave."

Porthos pried Aramis' grip from his wrist and took hold of his hand instead. "You're safe, my friend. I'm not goin' anywhere." Where the hell was d'Artagnan and Maynard?

As if reading his thoughts, Constance turned towards the door. "I'll go and see what is keeping the others."

xxxxxxAll4Onexxxxx

Athos bee-lined for the front door, dragging Doctor Corbin with him. The man grumbled and whined about his treatment and Athos found himself sorry that he had stopped Porthos from rage-punching him into the wall. As soon as they stepped outside, Athos released his hold on the man and pushed his medical bag – that he'd collected along the way – into his chest. He stood back, not waiting to see if the man's reflexes were fast enough to catch it.

Corbin stumbled with the loss of momentum as soon as Athos released him but managed to right himself before crashing to the ground. It was a shame. Frustration and anger filled the air around him and Athos had no time for ignorant men who were the cause of such distress to one of his brothers.

"What is the meaning of this?" Corbin questioned indignantly, wrapping one arm around his bag. His free hand tested out his nose with a pained wince. It was no longer bleeding but it looked tender.

"Your services are no longer required, Doctor." Athos thought that much should have been obvious.

"Am I to be paid for my services?" Athos tilted his head and looked at the man as if he were crazy. Maybe he was. He was English, after all. With Athos' lack of verbal response Corbin continued. "I came out here in the middle of the night by the kindness in my heart and was attacked for my trouble. Twice." He held up two fingers as if to back up his complaint. "What kind of brutes does the King employ?"

Athos sighed and took a step forward, grasping the man's upper arm. "I can assure you,  _Doctor_ , the longer you stay, the more you'll learn and that is a lesson for another day. Go home. I have a sick friend to get back to." Athos manhandled him out past the well situated in front of Constance's house. He was not going to argue with this man.

A short distance away, Athos spotted d'Artagnan and Maynard approaching. He released Corbin once again with a little push. "Leave. Now. Before I show you what kind of brutes the King of France employs."

Corbin huffed, his hand still hovering over his broken nose. "You're all a bunch of fools. You're friend needs a doctor. Those worms will continue to fester if not dealt with and his fever..."

Worms? Athos raised an eyebrow but decided not to ask. He just wanted the man gone. "I am not going to repeat myself." His gaze slid to d'Artagnan as the young man approached, confusion etched on his features.

"Have it your way, Musketeer. I'll be taking my quarry to your superior. I expect payment." Corbin turned in a huff and began walking away. Finally. Athos breathed a sigh of relief. That was one problem sorted.

"What was that about?" d'Artagnan asked as Athos fell into step with him.

"Don't ask. It is nice of you to join us though," he replied dryly.

"It is not the boy's fault. These old legs haven't seen such exercise in a long time. I held him back." Maynard was puffing with exhaustion.

"How's Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked as they approached the front door.

Athos entered the dwelling directing the way back to d'Artagnan's room. "As charming and deadly as ever."

d'Artagnan smiled slightly, shaking his head. "Good to see some things never change."

As they entered the room, Athos' attention was drawn to the bed. The smell of stress and sickness was thick in the atmosphere and he found himself swallowing thickly at the sight before him. Aramis was curled up on his side, a picture of pure misery as the other Musketeer tried valiantly to bring his fever down with nothing more than a wet cloth.

For as long as Athos had known Aramis he had always been strong and charismatic. Right now, as he lay there, clearly overtaken with agony, Athos thought he looked much younger than his years. His eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw ridged, pressed into his hand and pillow in a useless effort to stop the ache that obviously resided there.

Constance turned from her hovering and her eyes lit up as she saw d'Artagnan. She moved to the boy's side, reaching for his hand. "It's about time you got here."

d'Artagnan gulped as his eyes locked on the same scene Athos was witnessing. It took a good few moments before he allowed his eyes to be dragged away to meet Constance's. "We brought help."

Maynard moved around both Athos and d'Artagnan, not hesitating in the slightest as he made his way to the bed. "What are we dealing with?"

Porthos startled at the intrusion. "'is tooth. It got broke in a fight. I think … I think it's killin' 'im."

Maynard reached out and touched the back of his hand to Aramis' forehead, wincing at the heat he found there. "His fever is dangerously high. How long ago did this happen?"

"A couple of weeks. The fevers only recent ... I think." Porthos paused, frustration clear on his features. He growled. "I should've bloody known something was wrong. Damn 'im." Athos felt the same regret. It was hard not to. Aramis should have seen to it sooner. Aramis shouldn't have let it get this bad. But as his friends, his brothers, Athos felt they should have acted sooner to save the stupid marksman from himself.

"I need to see the tooth," Maynard stated, wisely waiting for Porthos to help achieve this endeavour.

Porthos nodded, reached out a hand and lightly shook Aramis' shoulder. Aramis groaned, his face contorting further in pain. "Aramis, we need to look at your tooth."

Aramis' eyes opened to mere slits as if the effort to hold them fully open was too hard. "No w-worms …" he muttered, blinking a few more times as he tried to gather his bearings.

What was it with the worms? Athos shared a glance with d'Artagnan but the boy just shrugged, not any more knowledgeable than Athos was on the matter.

"Doctor Corbin diagnosed that worms were festering in his tooth and gum and had planned to burn them out with a hot poker," Constance explained, squeezing d'Artagnan's hand. "Aramis didn't take to that very well."

"I can't imagine why," Athos remarked dryly. Now he understood the reason for the Corbin's broken and bloody nose. Aramis was defending himself against a burning hot poker. Athos couldn't help but think that was fair enough.

"No, I doubt worms are your problem, lad. I never really believed in that nonsense and I've seen my fair share of toothaches and abscesses and I cannot promise this won't be unpleasant. But I really do need to see the problematic tooth." Maynard's voice was gentle and he didn't make a move without approval from his patient. He waited, giving Aramis a chance to come to terms with what was happening. Maynard was much more tactful than Doctor Corbin. Hopefully that would pay off.

Aramis looked at him for a few long moments before looking to Porthos, questions burning in his eyes.

"Maynard's 'ere to help. I promise," Porthos assured him with a nod. "You trust me, right?"

Athos was ready to hold the fool down if he didn't comply but to his relief Aramis slowly nodded. It was a start.

"Good, good. Can you lay on your back for me?" Maynard asked and waited as Aramis nodded once more and resituated himself on the bed. "Good. Porthos? Could you give me some space?"

"Don't go." Aramis voice was strained, but no less desperate. His eyes opened fully as the idea of being left alone with the doctor gained purchase in his sluggish mind. Aramis was stuck between wanting relief so desperately and fear of what was needed to gain that relief. It was bizarre to watch his normally brave and reckless friend so addled by fear. Athos folded his arms across his chest, feeling uncomfortable with the whole scene.

"I'm not leavin' 'im." Porthos' statement came in the same moment as Aramis panicked reflexes grabbed fist full of his leather sleeve. "I'm not goin' anywhere," Porthos reiterated. He patted the hand attached to him, reassuring his friend.

"I was not asking you to leave, Porthos. Just to move aside. I cannot tend to him if I do not have the space to do so," Maynard huffed. "Perhaps you could sit on his other side."

Porthos expression didn't lose its edge but his fight reflex visibly calmed. "Fine." He extracted Aramis tight grip on his sleeve, squeezing the trembling hand briefly. He met his friend's eyes. "Not goin' anywhere, okay?"

The tension in Aramis' quivering muscles was rising but he nodded, closing his eyes. He pressed his head further back into the pillow and clenched his fingers in the bed linen. His breathing become louder, in and out through his nose as he tried valiantly calm himself. At this point Athos wasn't sure whether it was pain or fear he was contending with.  _More than likely both_ , he thought.

Porthos moved to the other side of the bed and shrugged out of his doublet, shucking it to the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed, one leg bent at the knee resting against Aramis' side. The large musketeer wisely kept himself in Aramis' line of sight.

Maynard rinsed his hands out in the bowl of water beside the bed and turned to look in their direction. "Do you have another lantern, Madame? We could use some more light in here."

"Of course!" Constance pulled herself away from d'Artagnan and left the room, coming back only moments later with a lantern. She moved over to the bed near Porthos and hung the lantern on a hook above his head.

"Much better," Maynard said. Plucking a candle from its perch on the lone candle holder in the room, the old man approached the bed. "Only for me to see better, my boy," he explained when Aramis eyed him apprehensively.

"Let's jus' get this over with, yeah?" Porthos asked impatiently.

Maynard handed the candle to Porthos and hovered over Aramis."Hold this close to his mouth so I can see what I am doing."

Athos felt awkward now as Constance returned to stand between him and d'Artagnan. He felt like a voyeur and with nothing to do that actively helped he couldn't help but wonder if the three of them should leave the room. But his feet felt like lead. He glanced at d'Artagnan and found that he wasn't the only one that seemed to be struggling with inner turmoil.

"Maybe we should give them some space?" Constance suggested quietly, looking up between them both. The younger man met his gaze as if silently asking for his opinion. d'Artagnan lifted a shoulder in question.

Athos found himself sighing. "I need a drink."

"Come on," Constance turned and walked to the door. "I think I hear my husband's wine calling our names."

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look between them before d'Artagnan's lips tipped up into a smirk. "You've never been one to argue with a bottle of wine. Let's go."

With one final glance back at his hurting friend, Athos nodded. There was nothing for them to do right now but wait. He followed d'Artagnan out of the room. In fact, if he listened carefully enough he thought he  _really_  could hear the wine calling to him … and who was he to argue?

xxxxxAll4Onexxxxx

Aramis shuddered. Nausea was swirling around his stomach, threatening to evacuate and the last thing he wanted right now was to be sick. He wanted to swallow but it was hard to do so with his mouth stretched wide open. Hands were on his face, holding his mouth in place. He felt trapped. Panic seized his racing heart and the need to get away surged its way past any thought or reason.

"Stay still."

There was a large hand on his chest. His eyes slid to his right. Porthos' face swam into view, his gaze never faltering. Porthos was like a rock. There was a measure of safety he felt when his friend was around. There was a trust there that he didn't bestow to just anyone and right now he was showing a whole lot of trust.

"uhh..so..rru," Aramis spoke around the fingers probing his mouth. He needed Porthos to know he was sorry, that he hadn't meant for all of this to happen.

"No talking," Porthos ordered, sternly.

"Hmm..." The foreign voice startled him. He'd almost forgotten there was someone else in the room.

Aramis tore his gaze from Porthos. The old face hovering above him moved in closer, careful not to get too close to the flame that Porthos was holding near his open mouth. On instinct Aramis tried to back away but with the pillows and mattress at his back he had nowhere to go.

"Uggh..." He needed to swallow but he couldn't properly with his mouth was still held wide open. His throat felt thick with the need to be sick. He couldn't remember what it felt like to feel normal and pain free. He closed his eyes, feeling more unsettled with the strange wrinkled face so close to his.

"It's okay. You're okay," Porthos stated, soothingly. Aramis wanted to believe him but the sharp never-ending ache coming from his jaw contradicted that. "You done?" Porthos directed his question to Maynard.

The doctor released his jaw and stood back. Aramis swallowed multiple times trying to quell the sick feeling at the base of his throat.  _Don't throw up, don't throw up_ , he thought. He couldn't go through that again right now.

"It's quite a mess in there," Maynard commented as he rinsed his hands in water once more. "The area around the broken tooth is quite inflamed and swollen. An abscess has formed in the infected area. It's no surprise that he feels so awful."

"But you can fix this." Porthos' toned dared Maynard to tell him differently. It was more confidence than what Aramis could muster. It was taking all his strength not to let the moisture collecting in his eyes betray him completely. "You can just take the tooth out."

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that. Removing the tooth while infection is rampant could be dangerous. It could hinder his healing and make him worse."

"Then treat the infection first."

"I know of a remedy against infection that might work but..."

"But what?" Aramis asked, determined to stay a part of the conversation, determined to have a say in what was going on. "W-What?" He asked again, impatient for an answer. The room wavered in front of him, his temperature was rising to a suffocating level.

"It could take days for the infection to recede, if it does. The reason for the infection would still be there."

Porthos made a frustrated noise in his throat. "So 'e's damned if you do and damned if you don't? Is'at what you're sayin'?"

"It's a risk eith…"

"P-Pull it out." There was no point in arguing over the matter. Agony spiked through his jaw causing him to groan through clenched teeth. He was so tired and over the pain. "Jus' … pullit… out."

Porthos placed a hand on his arm. "Are you sure?"

"No," he replied honestly. The thought still terrified him which was stupid considering how much he wanted the pain to stop. But the thought of spending possibly days with his tooth feeling like it was in a vice was too much too take. He took a long breath before continuing. "s'no choice, P'thos."

"Once we have the tooth out we can flush out the wound, clean it and treat the infection. With any luck he should heal perfectly fine. But …"

The man's assessment seemed logical and there had been no mention of acid or worms, or fire, or burning and Porthos was there and he'd promised him that this man knew what he was doing. That promise and trust meant everything, because he needed this dealt with. His jaw twinged again, making him want to scream. Instead, he clenched his jaw so hard he thought it might snap. His concentration was on Porthos. He could trust Porthos. "D-do it."

"Can we knock him out? It'd be kinder," Porthos suggested and Aramis wondered why his friend was so keen to knock him out  _now_  when he'd been asking him to do so all night to no avail.

"No. We don't want to risk anymore damage, I'm afraid. But if Madame Bonacieux has some wine?" Maynard inquired.

"Is everything okay in here?" d'Artagnan's voice could be heard from the doorway.

Aramis kept his eyes closed and breathed through his nose. His tooth ached to the beat of his pounding heart. Surely ripping the angry tooth from its gum couldn't be any worse than the constant  _throb, throb, throb_. It was torture, plain and simple. Of course he'd done this to himself. Even with the heat of his body bearing down on him and the constant ache, he knew that. That ridiculous fear born years ago had brought him to this point right now. He'd always maintained his teeth as well as he could and yet still he found himself about to visit something he'd always tried his best to avoid. A dentist.

He'd always thought that he'd rather be shot or stabbed. He had, in fact, experienced both at different times in his life and he had the scars to prove it. He could remember distinctly the feel of a musket ball ripping through his shoulder, tearing muscle. He'd yelped as he'd gone down, an involuntary noise that was as much from the shock of being knocked off his feet as it was from the sudden pain bursting from the entry point. His memories were rushed and hazy but it had been bearable, shock possibly numbing the whole experience.

Memories of his opponent's blade plunging into his torso just below his chest had stolen his breath. It was different. He'd felt each sliver of cold steel as it had moved through his body. The immediate effect was long and drawn out compared to being shot. The memory of the blade slicing through his skin and muscle caused him to shudder. But again he'd found the memory was foggy as if his brain had protected itself. He'd shut off as he'd laid there on the battlefield waiting to die.

"You'll need to brace him. This isn't going to be easy."

The bed dipped and Aramis forced his eyes open once more and found himself looking up at Athos. When had he returned to the room?

Athos helped pull him into a sitting position and then Porthos was holding a bottle of wine to his lips. "Drink," he ordered, tipping it ever so slightly upwards.

Aramis reached up a clumsy hand to help and chugged at the bottle. The wine ran over his tongue and he made a conscious effort of keeping the liquid to the unaffected side of this mouth. The wine was warm as it hit his empty stomach and for a second he thought it might come straight back up. The bottle was pulled away momentarily, forcing him to take a large breath. He choked on a gasp as cool air hit his infected tooth, igniting the fiery pain there once again. The bottle was placed back to his mouth and Aramis happily welcome the liquid as it burned down his throat. He coughed as the bottle was dragged away once more. Porthos grabbed him by each shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "This is going to be over before you know it." He allowed himself to be manoeuvred back to the mattress, fighting the urge to knock his friends out of the way and run for his life. It took every ounce of internal strength to stay where he was.

Aramis looked up; he could see Athos sitting at the head of the bed. Their self-appointed leader leaned closer and placed his hands on his face, one hand on his forehead and the other under his chin. The pressure was light but as his lower legs found themselves pressed against the bed Aramis felt that irrational fear build itself back up again. He glanced down as best he could in his position - to the end of the bed - and found d'Artagnan's gaze meeting his. It was apologetic. The young man was leaning over the end of the bed, holding his legs against the mattress.

"Breathe, Aramis." Porthos was there again. This time he was kneeling on the bed next to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other still soothingly resting against his chest. "It's gonna be fine. Right, Athos?"

"Of course. You'll be flashing those pearly whites and getting yourself in trouble again in no time," Athos agreed, lightly patting his uninjured cheek affectionately. "You're going to be fine."

Athos gaze locked onto his from above. The older man nodded encouragingly as his grip on his head became more firm. Aramis tried to feel some measure of comfort in his friend's presence. It was going to be okay.  _It's going to be okay_  became his silent mantra.

Maynard approached the bed, tools in hand and Aramis couldn't stop the tension from spreading through his limbs. He could hear his racing heartbeat in his ears. Strong hands became even stronger, forcing him to remain still.

"Look at me," Athos coaxed softly.

"Listen to Athos," Porthos agreed, a steady presence at his side.

d'Artagnan remained silent but the slight squeeze of his ankles reminded him that their young friend was privy to this embarrassing display as well. Aramis wasn't sure to be thankful for the support or completely ashamed at the predicament he'd put himself in. Both sounded about right.

"I won't lie to you, lad. This is going to hurt, but as long as your tooth doesn't crumble I should be able to extract it fully," Maynard explained as he set some items down on the bed beside him.

Crumble? The healer's words didn't enthuse confidence and Aramis' need to fight became stronger. He shifted, trying to back away from the doctor before he even realised what he was doing. His chest heaved as his lungs fought against his panic.

"It's okay," Athos told him. "Just concentrate on me and this will all be over with."

Aramis tried to focus on his friend's voice. He tried to focus on his friend's grim features. He could do this. He was better than this and he had faced far worse. He tensed as hands invaded his mouth, forcing it open. Aramis closed his eyes, not wanting to see the doctor above, or Athos' worried expression.

A piece of metal was pushed into his mouth. It was cold against his tongue and Aramis found himself squirming. The Pliers opened and then closed around his damaged tooth. Fire ignited from the raw and swollen gum, causing him to groan loudly as he attempted to back away from the intrusion. He had nowhere to go. Athos held his head in a vice-like grip and his upper arms were now held against the mattress, preventing him from defending himself.

He changed his mind. He didn't want the healer near his tooth. A white hot pain spiked from his nerve-endings, sending stabbing sensations throughout the whole top of his jaw. "Arghh!"

There were people talking. He could hear them in the background of the white noise that had taken up residence in his head. He didn't know what they were saying and he didn't care. He struggled against his restraints, unable to keep silent as the metal jaws in his mouth continued to pull and twist. The bed dipped as the doctor attempted to get better leverage. His tooth was yanked harder, the pliers slipping, bruising his lip in the process.

"Apologies …"

The pliers found purchase once more fitting around his tooth and yanked hard. Pain shot from his tooth up into his temple and he growled long and hard, his fists flexing into fists. The moisture that had been filling his eyes slipped from beneath closed lids and slid down the side of his face.

Pressure was building and Aramis wondered if the Doctor was attempting to push the tooth up into his head rather than pulling it free. "Argg …uhhh!" he cried out, panting for breath that seemed short and hard to come by.

"Nearly there," Maynard commented, grunting with effort.

"Arghhhhh!" Aramis screamed as the pliers pushed and pulled, igniting an agony that he had never thought was possible. It was all encompassing. Low in his throat he felt a rumble and it took him a couple of seconds to realise that the rumble was vocalised. Another tear slipped past his defences as his tooth was yanked, jarring it up into his gum with a crack. The pliers wasted no time in pulling on the damaged tooth once more. He screamed again, as his world whited out.

Aramis was pulled into darkness, blessed relief finally arriving as he slumped into oblivion.


	5. Closure

d’Artagnan stretched, lifting his arms high in the air. He relished as his joints popped and cracked, relieving the stiff tension that resided there. He shifted his long legs straight out in front of him, enjoying the shift in position. His movements were followed by a yawn, his mouth opening wider than he thought possible.

His grinned to himself as he settled back into a slump on the chair beside the bed. His mother had always chastised him for not covering his mouth in midst of a yawn. Having been so young when she was lost to him he didn’t always remember a great deal about her. But sometimes on the rare occasion a memory would surprise him.

He shifted, pulling one leg up to rest upon his knee. He crossed his arms over his chest, sliding his hands beneath his armpits in an attempt to keep his fingers warm. He felt like he’d been up all night. In fact, aside from a short stint at sleep early in the night, d’Artagnan _had_ been up all night. There was a chill in his bones that spoke of fatigue but he shook it off. It didn’t feel right to fall into sleep while someone else still occupied his bed.

He glanced over at his friend. Aramis was asleep ... or unconscious. Despite Maynard’s assurances, d’Artagnan wasn’t all that convinced that Aramis’ condition was as innocent and restful as sleep. He looked horrible. The Spaniards normal healthy complexion gave way to a pale and waxy one. Heat flushed his face and one side of his mouth was completely swollen. Once flushed out and cleaned, the doctor had packed the wound with clean strips of cloth, causing his cheek to bulge. A decent size bruise was showing, spreading out from the split lip he’d received due to the pliers. He looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a raging Porthos and lost spectacularly.

It had been hours since their friend had passed out, ceasing his agonized screams. It had been relief for them all when Aramis had finally lost his battle with consciousness. d’Artagnan would be happy if he never had to hear those sounds again. Since then Porthos and Athos had headed back out to see if they could find any sign of their horses. Porthos had argued that his place was with Aramis but Athos had somehow convinced the big man to leave the house, leaving d’Artagnan in charge of their friend’s welfare. It was probably the most important job he’d ever been given.

Aramis shifted on the bed, rolling his head to the side. His eyes twitched under closed lids. As d’Artagnan moved closer he could have sworn he heard the older man mumble something but whatever it was he wasn’t sure. d’Artagnan stood, vacating the hard chair and took a seat on the bed. He reached out and plucked the - now not so cold – compress from Aramis’ head. It was warm. d’Artagnan, replaced the towel with his hand for a moment and frowned at the heat that still remained there. The danger of fever had still not yet abated.

Dipping the towel in the cool fresh water that Constance had left by the bed, d’Artagnan folded the material and then wiped down his friend’s face and neck, careful to avoid the swollen side of his jaw. Aramis sighed but stubbornly kept his eyes closed. His breathing was still a little laboured for d’Artagnan’s liking. Soaking the compress one more time in the water, d’Artagnan folded it neatly across Aramis’ brow.

“How does he fair?”

Maynard entered the room, carrying a small bowl, a towel and a small bottle. d’Artagnan stood, awkwardly wringing his hands together in front of him. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t he be awake by now?” It was disconcerting to see their friend look so ill. Aramis was usually the life of the party. He was the one with an easy smile and quick remark that even managed to drag a smile out of Athos on occasion. Aramis seemed to be the heart of their little group. His current condition felt so wrong.

“The infection has infested strongly and his fever was already dangerously high before I arrived. Removing his tooth was the easy part.”

d’Artagnan scoffed. Easy? “I somehow think Aramis might beg to differ.” It certainly hadn’t looked that easy when the old man had practically climbed on the bed to gain leverage to pull the tooth free. It had been a hard fought battle.

“Maybe so. But perhaps he’ll be grateful he wasn’t awake for the rest.”

d’Artagnan had to agree. Lancing the abscess on his gum had been a disgusting and messy experience that Aramis would be blissfully ignorant about. He wouldn’t soon forget the smell either. It was for the best that he’d passed out. d’Artagnan moved out of the way so that Maynard could take his place at the edge of the bed. His attention moved back to Aramis. His condition hadn’t changed since the last time he glanced at him and he felt his concern return with a vengeance.

“He _will_ be okay, won’t he?” d’Artagnan asked, crossing his arms back across his chest.

Maynard focused on d’Artagnan for a moment, studying him. He nodded. “He is young and healthy. That plays well in his favour.”

“His fever?”

“High,” Maynard agreed. “But once it breaks most of the danger will be gone. In the meantime, I will aid him to fight the infection.” He held up the concoction he’d mixed into a bowl.

d’Artagnan leaned closer, peering into the bowl at the greenish paste. He scrunched up his nose as the odd smell hit his senses. “What is it?” He asked, taking a step back.

“It is a combination of some herbs and a particular plant that has been seen to be quite effective in fighting infection. I use it sparingly as it doesn’t exactly grow in these parts. This is my last sample.”

“Perhaps we could get you more,” d’Artagnan suggested.

Maynard shook his head. “You’d be travelling a long way, my boy. There are other herbs that work almost as well. Do not concern yourself over it.”

They hadn’t exactly given Maynard a choice to come with them. But d’Artagnan knew genuine care when he saw it. This man before him cared about his patient. He was confident and he hadn’t once mentioned blood-letting for which d’Artagnan knew Aramis would appreciate … if he were conscious. Aramis had never really liked the idea even when necessary. “We do appreciate your help, Maynard, even Porthos.”

“Porthos cares about your friend quite a lot I see,” Maynard stated as he pulled blood soaked strips of cloth from Aramis lax mouth.

d’Artagnan nodded, finding himself trying not to look at the disgusting soggy pieces of material, instead focusing on his friend’s closed eyes. There was a pinched look between his brows as even in sleep the ministrations disturbed him. d’Artagnan watched, expecting Aramis to wake up any second. He wanted to see the brown of his friend’s eyes but despite his need to see Aramis awake and coherent, d’Artagnan thought it was probably for the best – once again - that he remain asleep … for at least this part.

“They’re always together,” d’Artagnan agreed. While the brotherhood between his three companions stood out amongst all the other Musketeers in the regiment, the bond that seemed to hold Aramis and Porthos together was something else entirely. You rarely saw one without the other. d’Artagnan himself had recently been faced with the fierce protective nature Aramis carried when Porthos had been wrongly accused of murder. Aramis had launched at him for even slightly doubting his friend’s innocence. They seemed to know each other in and out. “They’re brothers.” There was no other term that fit better.

“Porthos always was loyal.” Maynard applied his paste to Aramis wounded gum. Aramis moaned slightly and instinctively tried to move his head away. d’Artagnan moved around to the other side of the bed and rested his hand on Aramis’ hot furrowed brow, preventing his escape. Maynard glanced at him with a thankful expression before continuing. “I can see he has found a home with his new friends. It is a shame that his loyalty didn’t extend to his old friends.”

“You’re wrong,” d’Artagnan replied with conviction.

Maynard raised an eyebrow, pausing only for a moment before he took fresh strips of cloth to pack inside Aramis’ mouth. “Am I then?”

“Porthos is a good man. He was telling you the truth about Charon.”

“What would you know of it?”

“I know that the Cardinal had paid Charon to sneak barrels of gunpowder into the court. I know that he’d paid Charon to destroy the court using that gunpowder.”

Maynard finished his ministrations, shaking his head. “I cannot believe …”

“We have the confession from the man who paid for the gun powder,” d’Artagnan told him. “I know that Charon had been planning on leaving the court with Flea. I also know that when Flea and Porthos found out about his plan Charon attacked them.”

“Flea would have told me.”

“Would she? Think about it. No-one in the Court knew. Why sully Charon’s name when the threat had been eliminated? She didn’t want to do that to Charon and she clearly didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You do not know her.”

“You’re right,” d’Artagnan agreed, stealing his hand back from its place upon Aramis’ head. “I don’t know her. But Porthos does and he’ll tell you he’s a great judge of character. She didn’t tell you because she obviously saw no point in disappointing you.”

Maynard was quiet for a moment, his mind in turmoil over the possible truth in d’Artagnan’s words. He brought a hand up to his weathered face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a long drawn out breath.  This man cared … a lot. It was no wonder that a young man like Porthos had taken a liking to the healer.

“Porthos did what he could to save the innocent people in the court.”

Maynard raised his head. “And himself. He killed a man that he’d once called brother.”

“No …”

Both d’Artagnan and Maynard froze, their discussion halted as they looked down at the man in the bed. Aramis’ eyes were open, just barely, his face tight with pain.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, hoping his friend was actually awake and not just in some fevered dream.

“I …” Aramis struggled to form the words around the ball of cloth in his mouth. “I d…did’it,” he slurred sleepily. “…killed’im.”

He moaned, quiet and strained. His eyes closed but d’Artagnan suspected he hadn’t yet fallen back under the blanket of sleep. He sighed, closing his own eyes for a brief second as Maynard watched the young Musketeer on the bed and absorbed his words. Of course Aramis would take this moment to awaken and of course Aramis would feel the need - even in a fevered state - to clear Porthos’ name and admit guilt.

“What … what does he mean?” Maynard questioned, and even with his eyes closed, d’Artagnan could feel the old man’s gaze upon him.

Aramis moaned again. D’Artagnan opened his eyes in time to see Aramis’ sluggish attempt at opening his own. “I … killed … C-Charon…” He stated slowly and concisely, taking the time to pronounce each word.

“Why?” Maynard ask, resting a hand on Aramis’ arm.

“Because Charon ‘ad been about to plunge a knife … in my _back_.” Porthos’ voice -though quiet- seemed to boom around the room. The shock of his entrance caused both Maynard and d’Artagnan to jump slightly. “Charon tried to take my life. Aramis saved it.”

Maynard was quiet for a long moment, his attention on Aramis, avoiding Porthos as he walked into the room. Aramis for his part had fallen back into a trembling sleep. But he’d done his self-appointed job. He’d protected Porthos by clearing his name just as surely as he had protected him by running his sword through Charon’s body. Always the protector.

Porthos moved into the room, the floorboards creaking with each step. His eyes were dark and his lips formed a thin line full of tension. Maynard kept his eyes on Aramis, his expression unreadable and d’Artagnan felt himself poising to defend his friend should the old man feel the need to exact revenge for an act that obviously disturbed him greatly.

“You know that ‘e shot Flea?” Porthos questioned, his gaze challenging as he took a few more steps into the room.

Maynard’s gaze finally tore from Aramis’ face. He looked up at Porthos, shaking his head in denial. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Why are you so quick to believe in Charon but not Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked, lifting his chin in defiance when Maynard’s gaze turned to land on him for a moment.

Maynard stood, packing his items in his satchel. “This is none of your business.” He paused to point at d’Artagnan. “I’ll not be questioned by you.”

“You know? I’d like to know the answer to that too.” Porthos stalked over to his former mentor and pulled him upright. “What did I ever do to cause you to think so poorly of me?”

“You left!” Maynard shouted, rounding on Porthos.

The anger on Porthos’ face simmered into one of confusion. “You gave me your blessing. You’re getting’ angry at me for that? You told me I could do great things. You told me I deserved more. Was’at a lie now?”

“Not at all. It weren’t your leaving that disappointed me.”

“Then out with it!” Porthos bellowed, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration.

d’Artagnan’s hand reached for Aramis’ forearm as the older man flinched at the sudden explosion. His eyes snapped open, glazed and alarmed. d’Artagnan hovered, watching as Aramis struggled to comprehend his surroundings. His forehead was still creased with obvious pain and d’Artagnan was half a second away from telling Porthos and Maynard to take their quarrel outside. “Por…thos?”

“Shhh ... he’s okay,” d’Artagnan soothed. He wiped the wet towel over Aramis’ flushed face, wiping the cool material slowly over his shoulders and chest. “Just rest.”

“You both made promises. Charon kept his,” Maynard continued as if Aramis hadn’t interrupted. “ _You_ promised you’d never forget where you came from!”

“So what? Your feelings are hurt, is’at it?”

When Maynard spoke again his voice was low and angry. “I called for you,”

Porthos looked up, his brows knitted further in confusion. “What?”

“I called for you. You don’t remember? I sent Charon to find you and bring you home.”

Porthos’ head tilted to the side, his frown deepening even further. “I saw Charon … once. Many years ago. He mentioned nothin’. In fact he told me that you were all doin’ just fine without me.”

“No no no, that cannot be right.”

Porthos laughed humourlessly. “Charon … ‘e wasn’t the honest, loyal student you thought ‘im to be. Why did you call for me?”

There was silence again between the two men but d’Artagnan could feel the tension shift. The fire in Maynard’s stance had abated and the old man looked older and more weary than he had the whole short time that d’Artagnan had been in his presence. He turned away, walking to the window. Aramis fidgeted again. d’Artagnan caught the musketeer’s wandering hand as it reached for his jaw. “Leave it.” d’Artagnan pressed the towel to the side of his face. Aramis’ face was set in a pained expression. Releasing his friend’s hand, d’Artagnan dipped the towel once again into the cool water and then folded it, pressing it to Aramis’ forehead.

“You going to tell me or what?” Porthos asked, becoming impatient.

“It … It was winter. Flea fell seriously ill and …” Maynard paused and turned back to look at Porthos then. His eyes no longer angry but sad. “I’d heard of your commission with the Musketeers so I knew where to find you and I sent Charon to get you. Flea was … I thought her dead on many occasions but…”

“Flea was sick?” Porthos glanced between his friends, emotions running wild before his attention was back with his former mentor. “Charon never said. Come’ta think of it, Flea never said anythin’ either.”

“It seems Flea has neglected to tell us both many things.” Maynard paused as he fell into the memory. “She called out for you many times, Porthos. I told Charon to bring you home but he came back without you. Told us you had no interest in coming back, that you had deserted us completely.”

“An’ you believed ‘im?”

“I had no choice! You didn’t return. Flea wouldn’t believe you’d completely abandoned us _… her_ , not in this way. She always said there must have been a good explanation.”

“There was!” Porthos growled.

“What is going on in here?” Constance voice joined the chaos in the room. One glance in her direction and d’Artagnan could see her ire was up. Her gaze danced between Porthos and Maynard before she strode into the room, Athos following behind at a slower pace. She stopped in front of Porthos. “You ... you should be ashamed of yourself. Your friend is sick, you shouldn’t be making a racket.” She brushed past the large man and moved towards the bed. “If you must argue, you can do it elsewhere. Aramis doesn’t need this.” She snatched the damp towel from d’Artagnan’s grip before he could protest and pointed towards the door. “All of you, out ... now!”

“Are you sure...” d’Artagnan started and then stood up, holding his hands up in defence of the fire that was about to get directed at him. This was not the time to argue with her.

“Come along, gentlemen. Aramis is in more than capable hands,” Athos stood beside the door, waiting, looking pointedly at Porthos. Porthos stalked out of the room, anger and frustration radiating off him in waves. d’Artagnan followed his friend out of the room.

xxxxAll4Onexxxx

Porthos was angry and frustrated as he held the back of the dining chair in a crushing grip. He heard Athos quietly closed the door behind him and as d’Artagnan moved over to the corner of the room it fell into an uncomfortable silence.

His outside jaunt with Athos that morning had done nothing to ease his agitation. Athos had pulled him away from Aramis’ bedside telling him that he needed help to track down their missing horses. While Porthos hadn’t doubted the validity of the request he also hadn’t been born yesterday. Athos was distracting him from the problems at hand. He had given him something to concentrate on other than his very sick best friend and a former mentor that seemed content to blame him for just about everything that happened since he’d left the court. Deep down Porthos had appreciated his friend’s efforts but when their search for their missing steeds had turned up empty it had been just another stress added to the pile that was growing.

“I’ve sent a message to the Captain to let him know where we are and why we’ve missed this morning’s muster.” Athos explained to d’Artagnan as he remained leaning against the door frame. “Constance has been kind enough to allow Aramis to stay here until he is well enough to leave.”

“Good ... that’s good,” d’Artagnan agreed and out of the corner of Porthos’ eye he could see the boy figit, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back against a small counter. His hands slipped in to rest at the waist of his breeches before he changed his mind and crossed his arms over his chest.

“We’ll have to show ourselves soon however.”

“I’m not leaving ‘ere until I know Aramis is okay,” Porthos stated without room for argument. There was no way he would be able to concentrate until Aramis showed signs of improving. Then he could strangle him for putting them all through something so stupid.

“I’m sure the Captain will understand,” d’Artagnan tried.

“I should take my leave,” Maynard interrupted his voice quiet and distracted.

Porthos looked up from where he was leaning forward and caught sight of the old man peering out the window by the door. “Leave? What about Aramis?”

“I have done all I can for your friend.”

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” Athos stated matter of factly.

“No,” Maynard agreed, giving sustenance to Athos’ concerns. “His fever rages and his body fights infection. But with my herbal treatment and his loyal friends fighting against his fever, I believe he stands a better chance than some. I believe your friend will be fine.”

“So ... it’s just a matter of getting his temperature down,” d’Artagnan queried.

“I’ve left some of the herbal paste beside his bed. Apply that until it’s no more and keep trying to bring down his fever. It’s the best you can do for him right now. Some might prescribe leeches but ...”

“Aramis hates the idea,” Porthos grumbled, running a hand through his short dark curls. “Always has.” Aramis’ aversion to blood-letting almost rivalled that of his hatred of dentists. He was determined that the process made your body weaker and more susceptible to disease and infection. Porthos gripped the chair harder and looked down, his head hanging low.

Frustration, fatigue and emotions crashed around inside him in a chaotic mess. Charon’s disloyalty had run deeper than he had even imagined. The lying and scheming, it saddened him. Whatever had happened between the two of them, wherever their lives had lead Charon had still been an important part of his life and yet some form of jealously had come between them. Porthos hadn’t noticed ... or maybe he hadn’t wanted to. It seemed bizarre to think that a man who was so determined to keep him out of their lives had gone out of his way to save him from execution.

“I ... cannot...”

“You’ve done a great deal for us, Monsieur. It isn’t much but it is the least we can do.”

Porthos looked back up to find Athos pressing a coin pouch into Maynard’s hands. He hadn’t even thought about the payment. He’d been so preoccupied with Aramis and the missing horses and the ... dredged up past that payment for Maynard’s services had been furthest thing from his mind.

Maynard hesitated, meeting Porthos’ gaze with an expression that Porthos wasn’t used to seeing – uncertainty. Maynard was always sure of himself, even when he was very wrong. It seemed Porthos wasn’t the only person rocked by the miscommunication and half truths that had been learned that day.

“Athos is right,” d’Artagnan joined in. He stepped forward and added a couple of coins to the pouch. “We’re grateful for your assistance.”

“Thank you, both of you. I ... Porthos, would you see me out?” Maynard asked as he slipped the coin bag into his satchel.

With all eyes now on him, Porthos straightened up and rolled his shoulders, stretching his back muscles before moving around the table. “I’ll be back.”

Once outside, Porthos walked in silence with Maynard into the streets of Paris. It was bustling with all different kinds of people going about their daily business. The streets were filled with noise and life. The sun was bright in the sky despite the chill still in the air.

“I would have come, y’know,” Porthos stated.  He needed the man to know that. He would have come had he known Flea was ill. He would have been there in a heartbeat. ‘What-if’s’ circled in his mind. What if Flea had died? He would have never forgiven himself; he would never have forgiven Charon.

Maynard slowed his pace, shifting the strap of his satchel higher on his shoulder.

“Had Charon told me...” Porthos began and paused, letting his sentence trail off.

“I know,” Maynard sighed coming to a complete stop.

“Do you?” Porthos questioned. “Because you haven’t believed a word I’ve bloody said from the moment we came to collect you. What’s changed now?”

“Your friends.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “My friends changed your mind?”

“They seem like good people.”

“They’re some of the best people I’ve known.”

“And you trust them.”

“With my life,” Porthos agreed without hesitation.

“Their dedication to you is just as strong. Your friend - Aramis – he confessed to killing Charon.”

Porthos shook his head. “He’s an idiot.” He would have to make sure his friend understood that it wasn’t in his best interest to antagonise the person who was charged with saving his life.

“Maybe so but he is an honest one,” Maynard stated resolutely. “He was in pain and feverish and his words were honest. I have much to talk about with Flea upon my return.”

“She was tryin’ to protect us both.”

“She always did. She cares a great deal,” Maynard told him. It was true. Flea was a strong woman and she put on a front of steel but behind all that she cared - about everyone.

“I’m sorry.” The words were out of Porthos’ mouth before he had a chance to think about it. He’d been raging against the allegations to his integrity all night and he was beyond tired. But he felt the need to apologise – for his attitude, for Charon not being the man that Maynard had thought he was. He was genuinely sorry.

“For what? For Charon? My boy, Charon’s actions were his own doing, not yours. I am the one who should be apologising. I am sorry I was so quick to believe the worst.”

Porthos allowed a smile to force itself onto his face. He shook his head, glancing at the venders across the street but not really seeing them. He glanced back at Maynard. “Think nothin’ of it. Thank you for treating ‘im. I owe you ... again.”

Maynard shook his head and then reached out an old weathered hand. “Promise to visit an old man from time to time and we can forget any debts that may or may not be owed.”

Porthos glanced down at the offering and smiled again, accepting Maynard’s hand. “You ‘ave my word.”

“Bring your friend with you,” Maynard said as he stood back. “I’d like to meet him when he’s not delirious.”

“I will. Can I see you back to the court?” Porthos asked.

“Don’t mind me, my boy. I can look after myself. Go back to your friends.”

Porthos watched as the old man didn’t wait for a response. Maynard turned on his heel and began walking away from Porthos and the Bonacieux home. Porthos felt lighter than he had since this whole mess had begun the night before. In fact he felt lighter than he had since the whole debacle with Charon had happened a few short months before.

“Porthos!”

The sound of someone calling his name dragged his attention away from Maynard’s retreating back. Looking to his right, Porthos could see that Claude – one of the more veteran Musketeers – was making his way over to him, his own horse trailing behind him.

“Is something the matter?” Porthos asked. They’d had a terrible night and now a fellow Musketeer was tracking him down in the middle of Paris. This couldn’t be good.

Claude shook his head, dismissing Porthos’ concern with a wave of his hand. “Don’t fret. Nothing has happened. However…” he began as he stopped in front of Porthos. He reached inside his doublet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Captain Treville told me to find you here and give this to you or Athos on my way out of Paris.”

“Thank you.”

He handed the paper to Porthos, tipping is hat back a little higher on his forehead.  He moved back towards his horse, moving the reigns back over his head and prepared to mount. He paused and looked back at Porthos. “A fair warning? The Captain seems in a foul mood. I would tread carefully.”

Porthos nodded. “Noted.” He moved forward and gripped the horses bridle as Claude pulled himself onto the horse. He stroked the Horses long nose, missing his own even more for doing it. He glanced up at Claude. “Where you off to?”

“Missives to go to Chatre.”

Porthos remembered the last time the Captain had sent someone to Chatre. It hadn’t turned out so well. “Be safe.” He said, patting the horses neck.

Claude pulled away and tipped his hat forward and winked. “Always.”

Porthos smiled as his comrade left. Looking down at the parchment still in his hand, Porthos’ smile turned into a frown. Of course the Captain wasn’t happy. They’d taken off in the middle of the night and they’d managed to lose their horses in the meantime.

He headed back into the house, hearing the quiet voices of his friends as he re-entered.

“Even if I did know the whole story, it is not my story to tell,” Athos said.

“I’m betting Aramis would know.”

“And he’d tell you the exact same thing. Why don’t you ask Porthos yourself?”

“Ask Porthos what?” Porthos interrupted the conversation causing d’Artagnan to jump in surprise and Athos to smile knowingly at their young friend.

“d’Artagnan here was curious about something,” Athos told him, pouring Porthos a cup of wine and handing it to him. Porthos looked at d’Artagnan expectantly.

d’Artagnan walked over and sat down at the table. “You mentioned before that Maynard saved your eye.”

“He did,” Porthos agreed, taking a seat across from the lad.

“What happened?”

Porthos glanced between his two friends and while Athos wasn’t pushing for anything he was attentively waiting to see if d’Artagnan would get an answer. “Okay …” He started. It wasn’t a secret. It was just something he wasn’t exactly proud of. He didn’t exactly go advertising his previous career choice. But these were his brothers and just like Aramis hadn’t judged him all those years ago, neither would Athos and d’Artagnan.

“It’s a simple story really. It was just before I left the court. I was still working for Maynard and I was real good at it. Real good. Practice makes perfect. I’d even say I enjoyed it. It was dangerous and excitin’.”

“What changed?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I was gettin’ cocky, hittin’ bigger targets ... important targets. I ‘ad a couple of close calls. Charon thought it was excitin’ too but I started thinking, you know, about my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“I was real young when she died but I remember certain things, like her kind eyes, her warm arms, she was beautiful and ... she always wanted more for me. I started to make wind about leavin’, about doing something more honourable with my life.”

“Given that you had become such a valuable source of income, how did your doctor feel about that?” Athos asked, including himself in the enquiry for the first time.

“Maynard wasn’t all that ‘appy about it.” He remembered that conversation well. “He asked me to wait, to think about it, spoke about my raw talent. Anyway … the last job I went on I … I was in way over my head. I was in the middle of Paris in broad daylight, got caught red handed by the noble that I was thieving from. His men took me aside and decided to teach me a lesson. They sliced me up good.” Porthos traced the scar on his eye.

“How’d you get away?”

“I didn’t. They left me in some back alley to die. Next time I woke, I was in Maynard’s home feeling all kinds of sorry for myself. Maynard looked after me. He was afraid I was gonna lose my eye. I couldnt open it probably for over a week. I don’t pretend to know what he did. ‘E’s always concocting somethin’ and whatever it was it eventually worked. In a couple of weeks I could open my eye fully and eventually it stopped leaking. The scar never went away though. I’d learned my lesson. But Maynard ‘e’d changed his tune. Once I was healed enough to be movin’ around again he told me I was right, that I could make more of myself. ‘e told me that I deserved more than dying in some alley so if I wanted to leave, then I should.”

“He was right,” Athos told him, reaching over and patting his arm.

“He saved my life, my eye and gave me the final push I needed to leave. I joined the military and eventually found my way to the Musketeers thanks to the Captain… speaking of…” Porthos pulled out the note from the Captain that he had still yet to open. “Claude came by with this.”

He handed the note to Athos who wasted no time in opening it. Porthos and d’Artagnan waited silently as Athos read the message from their leader. The older man’s brows arched, he smiled and then winced, all without saying a word.

xxxAll4Onexxxx

The ache in his jaw was the first thing that Aramis recognised upon awakening. It had been constant for so long now that he wondered if he would ever feel normal ... ever again. The ache was dull now though, present enough just to remind him that his mouth had seen trauma recently.

He swallowed and then frowned, rolling his head to the left. He contemplated opening his eyes but he was so tired. He considered trying to let his mind wander and fall back under the spell of sleep but his head was starting to pound.

“Aramis?”

The voice startled him. It shouldn’t have. Each and every time he’d woken up there had been someone there with him. His memories were a mixture of Porthos’ hovering, Athos’ quiet and steady presence, d’Artagnan’s anxiousness and Constance’s gentle touch. He wasn’t sure whether it had all been imagined or not but it had helped to balance out the general awfulness that he’d felt.

Aramis forced his heavy lids apart, his bleary gaze eventually focusing on d’Artagnan’s curious stare that was too close for his liking. The boy was peering over him like he was inspecting an insect. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis whispered. He reached up with a tired hand and patted the boy’s chest. “Personal space.”

“Oh … sorry,” d’Artagnan answered sheepishly. He pulled back, seating himself on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis thought about that for a moment as he took stock of himself. He felt heavy and tired and sweaty. He cringed as his tongue felt around the extraction site. There was still a foul taste in his mouth, a mixture of blood and that awful paste Constance insisted on administering. He cringed again as his tongue hit a tender spot.

“Don’t. It needs to heal properly,” d’Artagnan admonished.

“How long?” Aramis asked, squinting as he looked for the window. There was an early morning light shining through the curtains. He realised he had no idea what day it was. He glanced around the room, squinting more as if it would somehow help him see better. There was no-one else in the room. Athos and Porthos were nowhere to be seen.

d’Artagnan stood. He reached for Aramis, helping him to sit up against the headboard. The younger man reached behind Aramis to resituate his pillows. “It’s been a whole day and night since Maynard left.”

“Where … where are the others?”

“Captain Treville called them back to the Garrison. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with three of his best soldiers disappearing in the middle of the night without a word. They’ll be back soon though.”

Aramis allowed himself to be pushed into a reclined position against the head of the bed. He watched d’Artagnan quietly as the boy fussed around him. He would have given Porthos a run for his money with his mother hen routine. He smiled at the thought.

“What are you smiling at?” d’Artagnan questioned.

“It’s just … it’s good to see you,” Aramis told him. He reached up and felt along his lip, fingers pressing against the damaged flesh there. “Ow …”

d’Artagnan pulled his hand away. “I’ve been here all night.”

“I don’t remember,” Aramis admitted. He remembered waking up here and there. He remembered everything being foggy and bleary and hearing comforting voices of his friends.

“I’m not surprised. Your fever got dangerously high. You had us worried. If your fever hadn’t of broken this morning Porthos had been ready to walk back into the Court of Miracles and drag Maynard back here. As it was it took a lot of convincing to get him to obey orders and report to Treville.”

“Maynard?” Aramis asked. d’Artagnan had used that name twice since he had awoken. Why did it feel so familiar?

“Porthos’ healer from the court. Don’t you remember?” d’Artagnan asked.

Maynard. Healer. He remembered now. Porthos had shared with him his past with Maynard not long after they had met. It had been months after the Savoy massacre. It had proved as a good distraction from the nightmares that plagued him and another stepping stone in the friendship that had been growing between them.

Remembering Maynard brought other memories to the forefront. He’d been trapped, in pain, held down by his brothers as Maynard had yanked and pulled at his broken tooth. The memory was all a haze of pain and fear and he cringed. “I remember now.”

The door to the room opened, causing both Aramis and d’Artagnan to look towards it. A weary looking Porthos and Athos filed into the room. Porthos’ eyes lit up as his gaze met Aramis’. “You’re awake.”

“So it would seem,” Aramis commented.

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked, stopping by the foot of the bed.

“Like I have been trampled by a stampede of horses,” Aramis admitted, rubbing at his jaw again.

“Don’t talk about horses,” Porthos groaned. He took hold of the chair next to the bed and twirled it around so it was facing backwards. He took a seat, resting his forearms on the back of the chair.

Aramis’ brow furrowed at the curious words from his friend. “Why can’t I talk about horses?”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Porthos managed to lose our horses in our efforts to get you help.”

Porthos swatted at their young friend. “I didn’t _lose_ our horses. They were stolen.”

“I don’t think Captain Treville appreciated the difference,” Athos replied dryly. He folded his arms across his chest.

“We got them back,” Porthos argued.

“How did you get them back?” d’Artagnan asked, twisting around to face Porthos.

“It seems our horse thieves tried selling our horses to the wrong person,” Athos explained. “The buyer recognised the emblem on the saddle gear straight away and sent message to the garrison. Musketeers arrived to find the farmer holding four men hostage and our horses safe and sound.”

“You’re serious aren’t you?” Aramis asked. He didn’t know whether to be amused or concerned by the turn of events.

“See … no harm done,” Porthos told them all with a smile.

“Sounds like you all had quite the adventure.” Aramis ran a hand through his sweaty hair. It felt disgusting. A wash was definitely in his future. He glanced around at his friends, taking in their fatigue and the very real relief he could see in their body language.

“We were lucky,” Athos stated, raining on Porthos’ positive parade. “Almost unbelievably lucky. As were you.” Their leader looked pointedly at Aramis, his gaze deadly serious.

“I’m sorry.” The words were out of Aramis’ mouth before Athos had barely finished his sentence.

 “You scared the hell out of us,” d’Artagnan told him earnestly.

Aramis sighed, looking towards the roof. “I never meant it to get this far out of control. I honestly thought I could handle it,” he told them, bringing his gaze back to settle on his hands in front of him.

“You always do and you’re always wrong when it comes to your own bloody health,” Porthos growled in frustration. “Next time this ‘appens? The tooth is better out than in. I will pull the damn tooth out myself.”

“You won’t need to. I can promise you I won’t be so foolish twice.” All of the drama that had occurred over something so small made him feel like an idiot. He was sure his friends would agree readily. He’d endured weeks of pain and stress and all because he’d been too scared to let a doctor near his tooth. Aramis shook his head, mentally cursing himself. He was certainly an idiot. “I have learnt my lesson and … I owe you.”

“Of course you do. Porthos has already been scheming ways to make you pay,” Athos told him, a certain amusement in his voice. Porthos laughed, his grin wide as more stress seemed to slip from his shoulders.

Aramis groaned. “I’m going to regret this aren’t I?”

“Better that than ruining your reputation by dying from a toothache, I imagine,” d’Artagnan chuckled.

“Touché,” Aramis agreed.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone that has not only read this story but left their feedback. It was my first attempt in the Musketeers fandom and it was meant to be a short story simply involving a toothache and it ended up exploding into a 5 chapter monster. So thank you for all your support and feedback. I hope the ending was okay. And I hope if I decide to write more I’ll see you all back again for more :)  
> Also, Thank you to my Bestest Friend Angelustatt and my mother for helping me with sanity reads :) You guys are awesome.


End file.
